


You'll Find Me Where The Wild Ones Are

by TheSweetestThing



Series: Wildest Dreams [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:48:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23989156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSweetestThing/pseuds/TheSweetestThing
Summary: “Go.” Prince Doran chokes. “Go and claim your castle.”His puffy hands grip Sansa's with all his feeble strength.“Go and save your sister.”
Relationships: Oberyn Martell/Sansa Stark
Series: Wildest Dreams [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1731517
Comments: 77
Kudos: 412





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't wait anymore to upload it :)
> 
> Because I've pre-wrote almost all the story, I'm hoping to edit and post a chapter every week or two. I'm not going to put myself under pressure with a set schedule, but the updates will (barring any life events) be a LOT quicker than the first story in the series.
> 
> Enjoy! 
> 
> If you've not read the books, get ready for some twists. If you have, get ready for some more twists!
> 
> After this chapter, it's a wild ride to the finish...

Sansa wakes shrieking.

Her legs kick out under the bronze silk sheets as her friend falls on top of her, fluffy brown curls tickling Sansa’s nose, sharp elbow digging into her ribs. Jeyla smells of sweat and sunshine, and her laugh is echoed by the two other girls at the door, grinning wildly with anticipation.

“You’re the monster!” Jeyla yells, before scrambling off and away so quickly Sansa can only sit and gasp, heartbeat hammering as her friend careens out of the bedchamber.

_I’m the monster._

She rubs the sleep from her eyes, squinting at the sun shining through the open windows as she tries to regain her breath. She had been dreaming she was a wolf again. A dog, in truth, and far less effective at intimidation. All the folk she hunted down had merely _laughed_ at her, just like the distant shrieks of play from the pools nearby.

_I’m the monster –_

_I’m the monster!_

Sansa curses aloud and lunges across her bed and off it, bare feet slipping on the tiled floor as she races out of the room and down the hall. Her friends had waited nearby just long enough to check she was following, and she sees only the briefest flash of Ellyn's smirk as she disappears around a corner. 

Sansa swerves around a bewildered guard, hair streaming behind her as she chases after them. 

They run, past the pools and through the orchard, clouds of dust floating behind in their wake as the trio separate, each hurtling a different path down the neat orderly lines of orange trees. 

Cossandra is slowest, but Sansa is slower still, and though she has the girl in her sights she can never gain the momentum needed to catch either. 

She flags quickly in the heat, sweat running down the back of her neck as she stumbles out of the orange trees and into the lemons. Her silk nightgown sticks to her skin, and she must pause in the shade of a tree to catch her breath, inhaling the citrus scent deeply. The giggles of her friends have long disappeared, as expected. They have grown up in the Water Gardens, and know all the best hiding places.

Mouth dry and head pounding, she gives up. Eventually she will encounter someone, and when she does she'll catch them. Far more important at present is cooling down, and she enjoys ambling slowly back to the pools. She admires the vivid flowers in full bloom that decorate the path, a dozen shades of pink. Dragonflies buzz past them, iridescent wings fluttering in the morning air as she plucks one, inhaling its sweet scent before placing it behind her ear. 

The closer she wanders to the pools, the more people she encounters. She passes naked toddlers shrieking with glee, fists clutching squashed oranges that drip through their fingers. Older girls braid each other's sun bleached hair, while boys with wispy moustaches wage mock war, wrestling each other into the dust. 

All want to talk to their princess, and Sansa happily returns their smiles and compliments, promising to join in their games or gossip later.

On the terrace, overseeing all, the Prince of Dorne sits beneath the orange trees. His legs are propped up on a velvet cushion, but his eyes are dark and alert, constantly monitoring his people. He is a good, gracious, prince, Sansa knows... though far more attractive to her is his brother standing beside him. 

Oberyn is leaning against the triple arch, and Sansa knows the exact moment her husband sees her for he straightens. She smiles, lingering nearby in hope, but when her husband makes no move to join her she realises their business must be of great importance. She passes reluctantly, blowing a kiss as she goes, and Oberyn smiles. 

_He saw that!_ Sansa thinks jubilantly. _His sight must be improving._

Though he had defeated the Mountain in battle, he’d been grievously injured. For a long while it looked as if Oberyn would be near blind forever, but slowly his eyesight had improved with the help of lenses sent from his friends in Myr. Of course, he'd only improved the miraculous invention, able to hold the glass in place before his eyes with a band of twisted wire that wrapped around his head and over the bridge of his nose.

When he returns her gesture, lips pressing against his palm in a flourish, she cannot help but giggle, and she knows he will find her later. He does not care if lords and ladies gossip of his silly behaviour concerning his young wife; more still say she has changed him for the better… but not tamed him. _Never that._

She strolls slowly past the innermost pools, eyes constantly sweeping the busy waters for a glimpse of her friends in the shrieking masses. She _thinks_ she spies Alesander holding aloft a little girl, but the next second her view is obscured by water as they splash into the deep depths, and she doesn’t know if he’s part of the game anyhow.

She carries on.

The pools furthest away from the palace are her favourite. They are less crowded, and cooler. The one furthest back has large flowering lily pads that float lazily across its surface, their sweet scent soaking into Sansa’s skin. Ferns droop into the water’s edge, and tree branches hang so low over the pool, a boy sprawled amongst them can easily drag his feet across the water, toes causing ripples across the deep green surface.

Ghael eats an orange idly, pulling the segments apart with nimble fingers. He only wears loose silk breeches, slung low on his hip, and Sansa cannot help but stare.

He must feel her gaze upon him, for he looks up and greets her with a smile.

“Princess.” His eyes wrinkle in the corners, and her heart skips a beat.

“Ghael.” She says breathlessly. 

Her skin is burning as she approaches, and she shivers with delight when she sinks down into the cool water. She sits there for a long moment, head tilted back, letting the water lap against her clammy skin and wash away the stickiness. She feels refreshed, and, renewed with energy, she grins up at Ghael who watches on with amusement.

“I’m the monster.”

“I know.” He returns her smile, and instead of running away, only moves closer.

He leans forward, big brown eyes glinting, and she cannot help but laugh when he presents the fattest blood orange to her in the palm of his hand.

“Thank you.” She takes the fruit carefully, fingers brushing against his calloused ones. “Aren’t you scared?”

He shakes his head, smile widening. “I don’t fear monsters.” 

She giggles, peeling the blood orange eagerly. She offers a segment to Ghael, and they share it together, sucking on slices.

“Have you seen anyone else?” She asks. Juice dribbles down her chin. “Jeyla got me.”

“I saw Vidre and Palissa running past not long ago.”

Over half an orange, a plan is formed.

An hour later, when Ghael whistles from the top of the tree, Sansa sinks down under the water, thanking the wild grasses that grow around the outer pools. She sees the distorted figures of her friends sloping towards her, and she feels a twinge of regret at the concern painted on Palissa’s face. Vidre looks annoyed though, hands on her hips as she walks to the pool edge. Bubbles rise and burst between the fern leaves and lily pads as Sansa rises an inch, water dripping from her nose. They wander closer, necks craned up at Ghael who spins a fine tale of her not being seen. Vidre drags her foot back and forth irritably, while Lissa stands rooted to the spot, gazing up at Ghael. He must beckon them further, for they take a step forward, and then another, long legs closing the distance with no fear -

Sansa jumps up.

Water sloshes over the side of the pool, drenching the screaming pair as Sansa slaps her hand against Lissa’s bare leg.

“You’re the monster!” 

Palissa’s hand is batting Sansa back before she even realises, and then she is laughing, drops of water dripping down her face. “ _You’re_ the monster.”

“ _You.”_ Sansa insists, retreating further into the pool.

Lissa follows, and Ghael jumps down, and the trio pull a shrieking Vidre in, and the game dissolves into splashes and breathless laughter.

* * *

“The Water Gardens heal all wounds.” Prince Doran had smiled kindly at her upon her return from Kings Landing, and it is true, beneath the blazing sun and crowded pools of the Water Gardens Sansa has learned to laugh again.

She can do whatever her heart desires to fill her day – swim in the sea, watch dolphins and turtles, explore the coast, finding the prettiest shells. She can make castles out of sand, and watch the tide topple them. She can lounge in hammocks in the shade of orange trees, the citrus fruit scent sinking into her skin as she reads epic histories and rare poetry. She can play in the pools, splashing water at her friends, or lie gossiping in the sun letting her skin turn brown. She can play the harp and learn the lute, join her friends in their lessons and take long walks along the sand with her dogs.

She can even cross the sand dunes for a visit to Sunspear if she wants to. She can wander around the markets, and order materials from merchants. She can spend the night at the Sandship, checking on her servants, before returning at her leisure. 

Her every whim is fulfilled, if not by herself then by her husband.

Oberyn gifts her new dresses of the finest silk and lace, and jewels of every shape and colour. He gives her manuscripts detailing the lives of Martell members of old, books of poetry and ancient history.

She reads of Maron Martell who had created the Water Gardens she loves, and Meria Martell, the Yellow Toad of Dorne, and Princess Nymeria and her thousand ships. She cannot help but think of her sister then, who named her direwolf after the old queen.

It is true that she is happy, a feeling she never thought she would experience after the deaths of so many of her family… but all she has lost still bubbles away beneath the surface. She thinks it always will. Palissa’s grey eyes, so like her sister’s. Her dogs, who should be wolves. Sun, when it should be snow.

Prince Doran and her husband have had blazing rows on her account, she knows. He has forbidden his brother from pressing her claim to Winterfell. They cannot visit the north, or even ask for more dowry from the Lannisters in recompense for all they’ve lost, so he leaves their visits constantly wroth. It is for her sake alone he avoided imprisonment along with his elder daughters, refusing to actively participate in his plan to crown Princess Myrcella Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Originally his idea, it had been expanded on and implemented by his daughters and Princess Arianne while he fought for Sansa’s future. They were meant to make Myrcella queen, but all they did was grievously wound her. She recovers in private rooms as far away from Oberyn as possible now, while his elder daughters and Princess Arianne had all been locked away. Only Sansa’s pleading had stopped Oberyn from incurring the same punishment; after all, he had only spoken the words, not followed through on them. Now he whiles his days away by Sansa and Ellaria’s sides as they reside at the Water Gardens, under the watchful gaze of his brother. Both plans have failed to provide the results he desired, and with his eyesight still damaged from his fight with the Mountain, he is often in a bad mood… but that does not stop him nagging Prince Doran to take action.

Ellaria teases he is restless more than ever in his old age, but he argues a Prince has duties. Doran had chosen to send a humbled Arianne and Ser Daemon to Storm’s End on some secret mission, so why not send them north? To be envoys is no crime, and if the northern lords took a liking to her it would not be their fault. After all, if Prince Doran had sent them when they first asked, the mad scheme to crown Myrcella might never have happened. She would still have her ear, and the Lannister’s would not be angered.

 _The Lannister’s are always angry towards me,_ Sansa thinks drowsily. _I am Queen Cersei’s greatest enemy._

She shivers.

Jynessa drags an eyelid open to look at her for a second, assessing she is well, before returning to her midday nap. It is the hottest time of day, and she and her friends have found a patch of shade and loll there in a tangled mess of limbs. Some brave enough to bear the sun are laid on the marble nearby turning more bronze by the minute, while more laze in the pools unwilling to move from the cool water. For Sansa, with her red-brown hair, it is a fine balance between browning and burning under the hot sun, and she rolls further into the shadows of the trees. She gazes up at the dark green leaves, listening to the idle tunes of a plucked lute nearby and the muttered conversations of those still awake. Stark and Tully are sprawled out beside her, their little paws twitching deep in dreams. Sansa’s own eyelids grow heavy, lulled to sleep by the scent of Palissa’s perfume, and the secrets whispered in her ear…

“Princess Sansa.”

“Mmm?”

“Prince Doran wishes to see you in his solar.”

She blinks up at the girl standing before her. She must have fallen asleep, for a handful of her friends have departed. Jynessa yawns lazily beside her as Lissa stretches. Stark still lies asleep, but Tully jumps up to trot at Sansa’s heels, thick brown curls shining in the sunlight. 

The pink tiles within the palace are pleasantly cool beneath Sansa’s bare feet as she approaches the Prince of Dorne’s solar. She wonders why he requested her...

“Likely he wants me to calm my husband down.” She tells Tully with a smile, who yaps with agreement and wags her tail.

When she walks past the guards and enters the room, her husband has departed, or been ordered away. Only Prince Doran sits in his chair, puffy legs propped up on velvet pillows. The gout has been affecting him lately, but he still smiles at her curtsey.

“Sansa.” He dismisses his guards with one frail hand, who close the door behind them. Their conversation is to be private then, not to be overheard by anyone... 

“Prince Doran.”

“Oberyn is with his daughters.” Doran says in answer to what she thought was discreet looking. “I wanted to talk to you alone. Please, come sit.”

She crosses the room with sudden trepidation; the last time she had visited him here alone he broke the news of her family’s murders. Bran and Rickon, Mother and Robb…

“You are well?”

Her freshly plaited hair tumbles over her shoulders as she nods. Under his gaze, the pink and purple flowers Lissa had painted on her cheek earlier feel suddenly childish, but he only smiles.

“Please, sit.”

She sits down in the chair opposite, twisting the woven bracelet around her wrist back and forth, playing with the silver fish shaped charm.

“I saw you with your friends earlier on.” He says. “Laughing, and having fun. I hoped being here would bring you such joy, after the events in Kings Landing.”

“Oh, it has Your Grace.” She says earnestly. “Please, don’t send me back to Sunspear. I – I love the Sandship dearly, but I love the Water Gardens more, same as you.”

“I am not sending you to Sunspear if you do not wish to go. No, I summoned you here to talk of your sister.”

“Oh.”

She blinks. It was the last thing she had expected him to say.

“You must miss her.”

“Sometimes.” She frowns. “You must miss yours too.”

“Always.” A shadow passes across his face. “Sansa, I have received news from the court in Kings Landing that Roose Bolton’s bastard has married your sister Arya.”

_Arya?_

She stares at him, stunned. A mad desire to laugh rises within her, bubbling up her throat, and she must bite her cheek to stop it leaping between her parted lips.

_Arya alive, and married?!_

“The situation at Winterfell has clearly changed for the worse. I am sorry for that Sansa, and even sorrier your sister suffers. I know what it is like, to be far away from tragedy and feel yourself unable to do anything to prevent it.”

“You needn’t feel bad, my Prince.” Sansa shakes her head.

Her situation is incomparable to the fate of _his_ sister. Poor Princess Elia had been raped and murdered with her babe’s brains coating her bloodied body...

“This is all a trick. A cruel mummers act. The Bolton’s don’t have _Arya._ She’s dead.”

Her sister had died long ago. _Y_ _ears_ ago. She had not been seen anywhere since the day the Stark household was slaughtered. 

She is most definitely dead.

The Prince of Dorne looks at her solemnly, dark eyes boring into hers.

“But what if she’s not?” He counters quietly.

* * *

_But what if she’s not?_

It echoes throughout Sansa’s mind long after Prince Doran has dismissed her. She wanders wordlessly past the pools, ignoring the shouts from her friends, feet carrying her across the sand dunes and away. He has given her permission, nay, his _blessing,_ to go to Winterfell at last, and time to think over the idea, but each path presents a different difficulty. If Arya is fake, she is a usurper, and if she is real…

Prince Doran is stupid, to speculate over such a thing.

Arya is dead, beyond doubt.

If the roads to Winterfell didn’t kill her, Theon Greyjoy did when he murdered Sansa’s brothers.

_Why mention a young maiden when two sons had perished?_

It is too painful to contemplate anything else.

She sinks down into the sand, half hidden by a golden dune. She still has stupid flowers painted on her face, and she scrubs at her cheek until her skin is raw and tingling, the colours smeared on her hand. She inhales roughly, choking on a sob, and soon there is no evidence of the childish pastime whatsoever. 

Sansa swallows back the acid churning in the back of her throat, huddling further down into the sand. Waves lap gently at the shore. A bird hops delicately through the froth, beak flashing gold as it finds and swallows a fish.

“My brother told you.”

Her husband’s voice drifts across the sand to her. It is not a question, but Sansa nods anyway. Golden grains of sand shift, trickling across Sansa’s legs and sticking to her damp skin as Oberyn settles down beside her.

“You knew?”

He nods.

Clearly, it was this that has made the brothers reconcile.

 _Something good has come from this then,_ she tells herself, _for Oberyn had hated them arguing._

The princes are close, despite their differences in temperament. With Doran’s reluctance and Oberyn’s hot temper, they are alike as her and Arya… Arya, who is now lady of the north.

She drags her gaze from the sea, turning to look at her husband. He is looking at her intently through his lenses, eyebrows furrowed together in concentration. His right eye is still weak from his fight with the Mountain, and it is only a reminder of the fates of those who dare to cross their enemies.

“She would never, _ever_ marry into the family that killed our brother.”

“You know some brides don’t have a choice in who they marry.”

Indeed, she was lucky to end up with a Dornish prince as her husband…

“You don’t know Arya. The only way she would marry Roose Bolton’s bastard is by force, and she would fight to the last breath in her body to avoid such a fate. She is _dead._ I don’t know when or how it happened but my little sister is dead, like all of my family except I!”

“Not all of your family.” Her husband reminds her gently, wrapping his arms around her as tears well again.

She sinks into his embrace, as he kisses her forehead. She can always find comfort in her arms, and she thanks the Gods daily for giving her Oberyn and allowing her to keep him. So many times they have been tested, and though they be bruised and wounded they are alive. Their love grows more through every trial they endure, and she knows whatever the outcome of this may be, he will still be standing by her side at the end, holding her hand.

“No.” She whispers. “Not all.”

She wonders what he would think of her family’s home. Her husband has never been north despite his extensive travels, preferring to keep to a warmer climate, but she imagines he would fit in well all the same. The north breeds hard warriors, just like Dorne.

“Arya would have loved it here.” She says. “Especially the blood oranges. She once threw one at me and hit me square in the forehead. It ruined my dress.” She frowns at the memory of the stained ivory silk, even now.

_How could she ever be the lady of Winterfell?_

Arya would have been too much trouble to keep alive; she was always loud mouthed and defiant, and most of all, a Stark in a world that works against them. An unladylike young woman… with a womb to carry a son.

 _Why mention a young maiden,_ Sansa thinks, _when you can hide her away then marry her off to solidify your claim?_

Oberyn’s laugh draws her from her thoughts. “Why?”

She blinks.

He squeezes her arm gently. “Why did she throw an orange at you?”

“Oh… I said when I was queen, she would have to bow to me and call me Your Grace. She didn’t like that. She didn’t like _me._ ”

“And you didn’t like her.”

“She was my sister.” Sansa says. “I loved her.” 

“But you didn’t like her.”

“Must you make me say it?” She sighs. “Arya was rude and dirty and annoying. She was entirely unsuitable to be a grand lady of anywhere, especially Winterfell.”

The more she thinks of it, the more the insult grows.

Arya, who never cared for propriety and ruined every dress. She who was more at home in the stables than the Great Hall, whose lack of manners and grace was more than a cause for concern. Gods be good, Arya could not entertain a party. She would only evoke embarrassment and offence from the guests unlucky enough to be invited, and the reputation of the North would be forever ruined. 

Sansa’s sister sits upon their father’s high chair clad in costly furs and jewels, dispensing justice and hosting festivities…

 _My sister_ , Sansa bristles, _or another entirely, a pretender taking the place of her._ _My place._

Arya or not, she still has a better claim then the woman wedded to Ramsay Snow. She is the eldest, after all. The most important.

“So you think the girl marrying the Bolton boy is a pretender?”

“Of course… but if by some miracle it is Arya, she’ll be pretending too.”

She dreads to think what fate would befall her if she did not. Her tongue, removed entirely? They would need to keep her alive as evidence of their righteous claim, to have a son with Stark blood, but it did not mean she could not be tortured in the meanwhile. A silent wife is the wish for most men, and if she were to die in childbirth their problems would be solved.

“What happens now is your decision.” Oberyn tells her, but there is no decision to make.

“I want to visit my little sister and talk - one married woman to another.” Sansa meets her husband’s gaze. “I want to get my birthright back." 

* * *

In great haste and secrecy supplies are gathered and new clothes sewn.

Prince Doran gifts a small but honourable escort back to Winterfell, consisting of Dickon, the younger son of Oberyn’s dearest friend Lord Manwoody, as well as Arron Quorgyle. Both are of age with Sansa and fond friends. Jynessa and Myria, heiresses to Blackmont and Jordayne respectively, are also invited to serve as Sansa’s lady companions. The four of them had previously been to Kings Landing together attending their prince and princess, so why not another adventure to a land unknown?

 _For them,_ Sansa reminds herself. _I know the north better than those that rule it now._

Or does she? She has been gone for so long perhaps no one will recognise her. She knows Winterfell has changed entirely. It is haunted, just like her. Filled with ghosts.

_But maybe not._

If it is Arya… she will step down. She will understand. She will be relieved when Sansa releases her from her forced duty.

 _I have to do it._ Sansa tells herself. _For her._ _And I won’t be by myself._

She has her noble friends, and Palissa and Ghael from the Water Gardens. Lissa is to be her maid and bedmate, and Ghael her sworn shield in all but name. He is not old enough to take the vows, but old enough to be gifted official livery and a longsword from his prince, and he looks handsome in his new attire. The bronze and orange silk tunic make his dark eyes burn brighter than ever, and highlight the faint stubble around his chiselled jaw. 

“My warrior.” Sansa tells him admiringly.

Her stomach swirls, despite her feet still being on dry land.

“My princess.” He grins, dimples appearing.

Sansa’s heart flutters. 

Prince Doran calls him over and he hastens away across the pier. Sansa watches him kneel before the ruler of Dorne for his blessing, smile tugging at her lips.

“My brother made a fine choice, choosing Ghael to protect you. He is a handsome lad.” Oberyn says approvingly.

She jumps, whirling around. Her husband stands behind her, grinning. Clearly he had seen their exchange.

“Strong and kind, too. You could not find a much better boy to kiss.”

He winks; Sansa’s cheeks burn.

“He’s just a friend.”

“Very well… but if you ever do find someone you are attracted to, do not hesitate. I am not the jealous type. You are only young, you should experience the first flushes of love and lust with a boy your own age. I am an old man, with his own paramour to warm his bed in place of his wife.”

“I am a married woman.”

“And your husband doesn’t mind.” He assures her. “You have my permission, if that is what you seek. I want you to be happy Sansa, and if kissing another makes you happy, then _I_ am happy.”

“What makes you think anyone would want to kiss me, anyhow? I’m the Red Viper’s wife.”

_But Ghael does not fear monsters..._

“Because you are beautiful.” Oberyn says proudly. “And kind, and gentle, and-”

“Insufferable, if you keep going.” She giggles. 

“ _Never._ ” He says fiercely, wrapping her in a hug and holding her close.

She sighs into his chest happily, and together they watch the supplies be loaded onto the ship.

Aside from the coffers of clothes, their cargo mostly contains gifts to sweeten favour and promote a relationship between the two furthest kingdoms of the realm. Spices, peppers and olives, plums, flatbreads and dates. Peppers stuffed with cheese, fat blood oranges and large caskets of the best Dornish wine.

 _Winter is truly coming,_ Sansa thinks, gazing out across the azure blue sea. It seems hard to imagine here, with the sun beaming and her friends chattering with excitement. They demand she sends letters, swarming her as she hugs them tight.

She is leaving them again, for who knows how long, but she will carry the memories of their time together close to her heart. Cossandra’s shy smile and Ellyn’s raucous laughter, Jeyla’s scrunched up nose and Vidre’s teasing… 

_And I have Palissa,_ she tells herself, _to remind me if I forget._

The sea blurs before her, and she wonders absently if the waves that lap the shore are as salty as the tears that fall on her lips. She wipes them discreetly on the embroidered collar of her dress; it would do no good for anyone to see her crying now. If her friends start, she’ll sob all the more, and then she might never leave. 

“Ready?” Oberyn says softly, hand caressing her arm.

She remembers him asking her the same question when they left Kings Landing months ago. Then they were fleeing murderers; now they are sailing towards them.

“Yes.” Sansa says. 

Taking a deep breath, with a final brave smile she turns her back on her friends.

Prince Doran is solemn in his chair, hands folded neatly in his lap, but his eyes simmer with fierce determination.

She goes down gracefully to her knees, the heat of the morning sun behind her burning her back. It turns the prince’s face gold, illuminating every line in his ageing face. She has a sudden desire to hug him, he who has done so much for her. If not for him, she would never have married Oberyn. If not for him, she would not be sailing towards Winterfell.

“My prince.” She says quietly. “My greatest thanks will never be enough.”

“Go.” Prince Doran chokes. “Go and claim your castle.”

His puffy hands reach out, gripping Sansa's with all his feeble strength.

“Go and save your sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oberyn in glasses <3


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa stands at the prow of the ship, frothy spray salty on her lips. Her red curls, half tumbled free from her plait, fly wildly about her in the wind, but Sansa doesn’t mind. She takes a deep lungful of bracing air.

_I’m almost home._

They had travelled past the busy port of White Harbor, not daring to stop. They did not have enough time, Sansa had insisted, and they garnered enough attention from the smallfolk merely passing by, the fearsome flags of silver direwolves running and rippling in the breeze, dancing between thin tendrils of fog. Their ship, _Ladies Favour,_ flies the Stark flags beside the sun and spear of House Martell, at Sansa’s request.

She wants them to know she’s coming.

Sansa had clung to the thought of her brother Robb rescuing her from King’s Landing; she hopes to inspire Arya likewise to keep fighting.

 _She won’t stop, not until she’s dead._ Sansa thinks, and then her hands clench tight in her leather gloves, biting into the fur lining. _She’s dead already. A mummer takes her title, her name and claim. But my claim is stronger. It is my birthright before hers; before anyone still breathing._

"Sansa." 

She turns. Oberyn stands beside the captain, resplendent in red fox fur. Northern garb suits him, though Sansa is not surprised. Her husband is handsome in anything he wears. 

"Captain Meracksays the fork is on the horizon." 

"I see." 

As Sansa looks out across the gently cresting waves, she _does_ see the way they part in the distance. She frowns. The Dornish sailors have no way of navigating the White Knife, so Sansa must guide them herself with only memories and a map to help. 

“Going up the Western branch will take us closer.” Sansa says. “But when we reach the rapids we can go no further. We must moor before then, and travel to Winterfell by land.”

“Is it far?”

“A few leagues north. When we reach Castle Cerwyn, we are only half a day’s ride away… but I do not think we should disembark there.”

“Is Lord Cerwyn not a friend?” Oberyn asks.

“Lady.” Sansa corrects. “Lady Jonelle is the only Cerwyn left.”

_A lady alone, just like me._

“I do not think she or her people would harm us. When she visited Winterfell, she was always shy.”

She had never dared lift her eyes from her plate in the presence of her father, Lord Medgar, but spoke to Sansa softly of lemon cakes.

“But I do not want Lord Bolton to punish her for something she had no hand in. We must make sure we sail a bit further, into their domain.”

“Enemy territory.” Captain Merack says solemnly, and gives orders for the crewmates to ensure the crossbows are fully loaded.

Sansa shivers, pulls up the ermine lined hood of her velvet cloak, and prays to the Old Gods and the New that nothing bad will happen to the ship when the anchor is dropped.

* * *

The further past Castle Cerwyn they go, the slower they sail. When Sansa peers over the edge to the water below, she can see the sunlight glinting off thin sheets of frost, slowly melting as they sink into the sapphire waters. By nightfall, the frost will freeze into ice. 

She had thought winter was coming, but perhaps it has already arrived.

They move sluggishly before eventually coming to an uncertain stop. Unable to go much further, they bob for a short while on the waves before the decision is taken to drop the anchor. _Ladies Favour_ is close enough to the shore that one could almost jump if tempted… but Sansa will of course take an offered hand, and walk down the gangplank elegantly.

Before all that, she must make sure she is dressed appropriately, and she stands in her cabin staring at her clean dresses in deep contemplation. 

Silks won’t do, not when she is travelling in such harsh conditions. Wool will be warmer, but too simple for a first impression. She needs to look regal, not humble.

 _Velvet then_ , she decides, _thick and costly_.

Choose the golden bronze, for Dorne and subtlety, and show she is no threat to Lord Bolton’s rule? Dark grey, to indicate she is ready and willing to fight for what is her true right? Or a neutral white, maiden like and pure as snow?

She decides the bronze velvet will suit her best, the rich shade highlighting the redness of her hair, the ivory of her cheeks, the sky blue of her eyes. Paired with the vair fur around her collar and cuffs, as well as her cloak, and the leather boots that lace up to the knee, she is more than ready to face a land of snow and ice.

Adjusting her hair, she looks up at her friends.

Their laughter had gradually faded as they helped Sansa into her attire and donned their own fresh garb. Clothed in thick wool, with their furred cloaks and leather gloves they look entirely northern… and miserable. Already their olive skin looks wan, as if they are sickening for the sun, and they are shivering despite them being in closed quarters.

_It is only because they do not know the joy of snow. After a good snowball fight they will come to love it._

“Come,” She takes their hands, pulling them forward with a giggle. “you have never seen snow!”

Up on the deck, crew are lowering sails and arranging the gangplank. Oberyn is talking with Ellaria, hands entwined as they gaze out at the frozen landscape surrounding them. She does not, _cannot,_ wait for them to join her. As soon as the bravest crewmate hops to land to set the gangplank, Sansa descends.

She had meant to walk quickly, forcefully, make an impression worth following, but instead her steps are slow and slightly uncertain. She dare not ruin the beauty before her with her presence. 

The barren landscape lies before her, untouched by anyone.

She pauses upon the threshold, toes clinging to the very edge of the wooden plank before she delicately lifts one foot. Her leather boot sinks deep into the fresh snow, shortly joined by the other. She takes a step forward with a satisfying crunch, leaving hollowed out footprints in her wake as she walks further into the wilderness. Cold flakes swirl in the cutting breeze, peppering her hair and sliding under her collar. She shivers, closing her eyes briefly, feeling the flakes lightly dot her forehead, her cheeks, her lips.

_It tastes like Winterfell._

It had snowed when she left home, she remembers. Robb had melting snowflakes in his hair when he hugged her goodbye.

A lump rises in her throat.

_It is only fitting it snows upon my return._

She slowly opens her eyes, and sees the blanket of snow still there before her, stretching out invitingly. Maidenly, perfect in a world where everything beautiful is apt to be destroyed. Sansa falls to her knees at the sight, tugging off her fine leather gloves to crumble snow between her hands. She ignores the tingle in her fingertips from the cold; she had _missed_ it.

She takes a deep breath of the fresh air, dragging in the heady scent of home.

Thin pine trees shiver in the breeze, their fragrant needles littering the tangled snow encrusted undergrowth beneath. Fat fir trees, their heavy boughs resplendent in shades of green, sprout for miles, as far as the eye can see. Rays of sun shine through thick white clouds, casting a soft luminous glow upon the earth. Gnarled tree branches glitter with frost, and stray flakes of snow caught in spider cobwebs shine like pearls. It is almost otherworldly.

She looks up slowly, still caught in the splendour, and cannot help but curve her lips into a soft smile at her husband.

Oberyn had followed her off the ship, and stands at her heels squinting out at the empty expanse.

“What do you think?” Sansa says, pulling her gloves back on her pale hands. “Of snow?”

“It is very… bright.” He adjusts his looking lenses over the bridge of his nose.

Of course, his vision would be affected by the glare of the sun off the snow, weak though it was.

“And cold. And wet.” He continues, but his cheerful expression belies his words. "But it is beautiful all the same. I can see why you missed it.”

Rising, she reaches for his hand. He squeezes it tightly, even harder when she turns to his paramour. 

“Ellaria, come join us!”

The older woman summons up a smile that is more a grimace, eyebrows fluttering upwards in surprise when her foot falls tentatively into the snow. Sansa grins and runs to rescue her, cloak flapping around her ankles.

"Why did I agree to this?" She says. 

"Because you love me." Sansa presses a kiss to her cheek. "And I love you, and the north. You will get used to it, I promise."

"I await that day eagerly." 

Sansa laughs.

Stark barks, dancing around their legs.

To Sansa’s amusement, her dogs have ventured out before the rest of the Dornish, and Sansa cannot help but giggle as Tully sniffs suspiciously at the snow, shiny nose covered with flakes. She shakes her head, scurrying to her side with her tail between her legs, and Sansa pets her dog, amused. 

The Dornish behind them are huddled together, their expressions covering a wide range of emotions. Jynessa is laughing as she sticks her tongue out trying to catch the flakes that fall, but Myria is shivering wildly, clinging to Palissa.

“This is summer snow?”

“No.” Sansa says. “Winter is coming.”

“It’s not already here!?” She exclaims, and Sansa laughs.

“The clouds above forecast more.”

“How can you tell?” She looks up with distracted interest, gazing up at the white sky above. Her curiosity overrides her distaste, and she steps forward.

“They’re thicker and lower. See?” Sansa points to one. 

With that in mind, she orders Captain Merack to make haste unloading the supplies.

“You must go back before the river freezes over tonight.” She tells him. “I will not have your deaths – and your sunken ship - on my conscience when they can so easily be avoided. Stop at White Harbor to make any repairs and buy aught you might need to return to Dorne. I am sure Prince Doran will reimburse you.”

“He will indeed.”

Sansa pauses, realising she’d had the presumption to order him over Oberyn, but her husband is nodding along beside her in perfect agreement.

“Sorry. I should have gotten your approval before sending them away.”

“You have nothing to apologise for. You know more than I do here. If you say it is not safe, I trust you are telling the truth.”

Sansa flushes, pleasantly pleased at his easy acceptance. 

“Oh-” Sansa says as Merack bows. “While you are at White Harbor, please spread the word I am home.” 

When the cargo is all unloaded, Sansa watches the anchor be hoisted back up, the loosened sails rippling in the breeze. For a long moment the party stand in silence and watch _Ladies Favour_ as it glides away… then Sansa swallows thickly, clasping her hands together before turning to the shivering Dornish. The Sand Steeds, loaded with supplies, seem to glare balefully, and their riders are not much better. She notices Dickon cannot help but cast a longing look back at the ship. 

“If we are all ready, we shall make haste.” Sansa says with a nervous smile, desperate to ensure everyone’s happiness. “Delaying only makes the cold set in quicker.”

_And I do not want to be out here in the night._

Who knows what horrors lurk in the freezing shadows?

Stark and Tully race through the snow, but their fine Sand Steeds are nervous. They toss their heads and stamp their hooves, white plumes of steam rising from their laboured breaths. With some urging, they push through valiantly, if reluctantly. They are known for their stamina after all, small but fierce.

They make slow progress through the snow, but it gives the party plenty of time to examine their surroundings as they travel through the woods. They wander past large oaks and ancient chestnuts, their grey limbs stripped naked, skeletal branches clawing at their clothes.

“Instead of dunes of sand, you have drifts of snow.” Oberyn observes.

“And just as deadly.” Sansa says solemnly. “People have lost limbs or even their life from frostbite.”

“All the same,” Ghael breathes, face alight with wonder as he meets her gaze, “it is beautiful.”

Sansa’s cheeks flush. Snowflakes form a halo on his hair as they share a lingering smile. She shivers, but not from the cold, and forces herself to turn away. 

_I am a married woman,_ she chastises herself, watching as a hare, its silky white coat almost invisible in the snow, darts into the undergrowth. _Who has no time to think of her friends good looks and nice smile!_

Tangled tendrils of ivy creep along the forest floor, wrapping around tree trunks. In the shadows of a weirwood tree a patch of winter roses bloom, their pale blue petals trembling in the breeze and sweetening the frosty air.

A robin chirps from a spruce tree nearby, its bright eyes follow their progress with interest. It flies from its perch enchanted by the party, hopping daintily along a holly bush and capturing the attention of Myria, who looks at the glossy leaves and red berries curiously.

“They’re prickly.” Sansa warns her as they emerge out from the trees. “And poisonous.”

“Like our Prince.” Jynessa teases. “Is everything-”

And then suddenly, her horse buckles, and she falls from the saddle mid laugh. Sansa is still staring bewilderedly at her on the ground when Ghael lunges over and across his horse, slamming into her. She hits the snow packed ground winded, gasping at the weight of her friend slumped over her. She struggles uselessly, legs kicking out in the snow. An arrow points through Ghael’s chest, blood pouring onto Sansa’s new furs. He looks at her wide eyed, bubbles of blood bursting on his shaking lips. 

She raises one hand to his cheek, horrified – and then arms are roughly seizing her, pulling her away. She is dragged across the snow as shouts and screams fill the air. 

Her head is forced down; an arrow whistles past her ear.

“It’s Theon!” She tries to shriek, but it comes out as a splutter as she stares at Ghael, who lies crumpled and still in a puddle of blood. The Ironborn was always good with the bow.

_He killed my brothers, and now he’s trying to kill me and my friends._

She is thrown over a snow drift by Arron, and she rolls down the bank dislodging snow as she goes. Dizzy, stinging with scratches and what are sure to be bruises, she lies amongst the thicket of underbrush wracked with pain, watching the back of Arron above her. He lies flat on the ground, only his eyes peering beyond the ridge at the unfolding fight. Suddenly he swears, and, fumbling with a dagger at his hip, launches it through the air. A horse screams.

“Arron-” She gasps. 

He shushes her, rolling onto his back. Dislodged snow falls onto Sansa’s sodden clothes as his eyes sweep across the forestry behind them, but if there were men hiding amongst the shadows they would surely have slit Sansa’s throat by now.

Her fingers tighten instinctively around the knife Oberyn had gifted her on their wedding night long ago.

 _Where is he?_ Her mind races. _And Ellaria? Ghael…_

She wishes Daemon were here. Her husband’s ex squire had been a great comfort to Sansa in the past, and she would not, could never be, scared with him protecting her. Why did Prince Doran command him to serve Princess Arianne? 

_I need him,_ Sansa thinks as she sucks in another painful breath, her chest tight. For a few minutes all she can do is lie there, listening to her laboured breathing as the shock fades. 

Somewhere above them, the sound of battle is quietening, and Arron finally turns his attention to her.

“Princess, are you hurt?” His eyes flick over her, pausing on her middle. “You’re bleeding-”

She shakes her head.

"It's not mine." She assures him, staring down at her stained dress. 

The rich velvet is wet with blood, shining in the sun.

_Ghael…_

“ _Sansa?!”_ Sansa’s head snaps up at the sound of her husband. 

She lets out a rushed breath of relief, immediately scrambling for purchase up the mound of snow.

“We’re over here!” Arron calls.

Sansa's fingers rake through the covering of snow, clawing at the frosted roots of thorn bushes beneath. Dislodged leaves crunch beneath her boots as she slips, and she looks backwards, cheeks burning, as Arron grips her leg. His hands are secure, almost too tight around her foot, so when he gives her a powerful boost upwards, she is launched almost to the top of the snowbank. Her fingers scrabble to latch onto the top of the mound, but she is pulled up by a pair of strong hands.

She slams into Oberyn, head buried into his chest. 

“You’re not hurt?” He caresses her cold cheeks, forcing her to look upwards and meet his gaze.

She shakes her head. “I’m fine. What about you? And Ellaria?”

“I killed two men myself.” He says proudly. “Ellaria’s a bit shaken, but she’ll recover.”

“Theon Greyjoy-” Sansa begins, but Oberyn shakes his head, finger tracing one of the scratches on Sansa’s forehead.

“It was Bolton men. We’ve killed three and captured the rest.”

“They are in cahoots, then.” Sansa brushes hair back from her face with a shaky hand. “What of – what of us? Is anyone…”

She trails off at his solemn look, and turns away, already knowing but not wanting it confirmed. 

“Ghael-”

“No.” She shakes her head, tears already welling. “ _No._ ”

Pushing away from her husband, she stumbles across the ground. The clearing is marred with slick pools of blood. Braying horses stagger around wearing empty saddles while their riders bind up hostages or moan in pain, twitching on the ground. Tully and Stark dance around her, overjoyed at having found her after the chaos, but she bats them away, grateful when Oberyn whistles and they go running, paws disturbing the split oranges. The coffer containing them had been hit in the attack, and the scent of them leak into the air as Sansa stumbles past the other corpses. The Bolton men have been piled up at a respectable distance to the edges of the battlefield, but she pays no mind to them.

The snow beneath Ghael is pink. 

_Bolton pink._

His olive skin is grey, his eyelids closed, and she could almost believe him sleeping except for the blood around his mouth. It stains the faint stubble on his chin, dribbling down to ruin the silk collar of his shirt…

“Ghael?” She whispers, but he doesn’t answer.

Slowly, she reaches out, cradling his still face with one snow encrusted glove. She had touched this cheek not half an hour ago, shared a smile with him not much earlier and now... now she will never see him smile again. Her fingers trace his bloodied lips tenderly. 

Ghael, dead in his new uniform, the amber turned scarlet. Ghael, who had always climbed to the highest branches to pluck the fattest oranges for her. Ghael, who had helped her win games and wasn’t scared of monsters.

_He took the arrow meant for me. Without hesitation._

“I’m sorry.” She says, voice shaking. 

How will his family ever forgive her? How can she ever forgive herself? 

_What have I done? Dragging my friends here to die, far away from home… he thought I was beautiful, and I killed him-_

She lets out a low moan of grief, her tears dripping onto his cold cheeks. 

Ellaria reaches out to her, but Sansa’s skin crawls at her touch and her very presence is suffocating. She staggers to her feet, across and away to Myria, who has an arrow through her shoulder and cries out in pain when Sansa helps her up.

Gloves stained red with Ghael’s blood, she and the able help the wounded.

* * *

The rest of their journey is slow going, the Sand Steeds faltering from cold and injuries, the people atop them miserable and shivering. The captured Bolton men are bound and gagged, their horses reined to the Dornish to ensure they cannot escape. Jynessa’s horse is dead, so she has to ride double with Myria, holding the pale heiress upright making sure the arrow in her shoulder doesn’t dislodge and cause her to bleed out. All Sansa can think of is Jeyla screaming, the day Prince Doran told her Arya was alive.

_You’re the monster!_

It echoes in her mind as they carry on through the frozen wasteland. Somewhere along the way, the hardy blood splattered horses of the north share the load, helping pull supplies and men and corpses alike onwards. They plough forward with practised ease, even as a Sand Steed slips on ice, shatters its leg, and has to have its throat slit for mercy. The dead animal is piled atop the other corpses, and Sansa hunches down into her furs, fingers tight on the reins as she kicks her own horse on into a gallop. She cannot bear to bring herself to look again at Ghael's body, crudely thrown over the back of the horse he rode merely hours ago. Anger and guilt propels her forward, vanishing the cold creeping under her collar and skirts.

 _Run away from your dead friends,_ she thinks, _run, run, run. I’m the monster._

When she finally sees the slate grey walls of Winterfell on the horizon, she cannot catch her breath. 

It hits her like a physical blow, more tears springing to her eyes. Exhaustion, grief, and happiness battle within her, and she gazes at the half collapsed rubble with a bruised and aching heart.

_It is not what I have done. It is what they have done._

Clearly the conditions on the outside are not ideal, but the inner rooms of the castle itself must be well to support so many people. There are obvious signs of life; if the healthy men sent to attack them did not proclaim their well stocked provisions, the smoke swirling up from the kitchens does.

Winterfell will survive the winter, even if nothing else does.

_Ghael…_

Her heart throbs as Ellaria urges to approach cautiously, lest there be more men with crossbows ready to fire from the ramparts. 

“The time for caution is over.” Sansa says. “It was over when they attacked us and killed Ghael.”

“Just mind they do not kill you too.” Ellaria says softly, adjusting her hood. “If this is the welcome we receive, I don’t want to think of the atmosphere in the castle.”

“It’s so _big_.” Lissa whispers as Sansa leads them to the closed portcullis. Forced to a stop at the barred entrance, her horse stamps their frozen feet irritably as Sansa tilts her head up to the ramparts above.

“Who goes there?” A snow covered sentry yells, and she sees the glint of his weapon, as Ellaria feared.

“Princess Sansa of House Martell, and her husband Prince Oberyn.” She glances sideways at the hostages, gagged and scowling. “And Bolton boys, who lost their way. I trust you want them back?”

The sentry disappears from view behind the ledge.

 _My castle,_ Sansa thinks. _My home._

Peeling off her wet gloves, she plays delicately with the ring on her finger, rubbing the burnished gold band.

“I have to do this.” She whispers to herself. 

_I have to. For Robb, and Mother, and Arya’s sake. For Ghael, who was alive and laughing this morning, wonderous at the snow he bled to death upon._

There is no turning back now. She must confront Roose Bolton, murderer and usurper, and make sure he pays for the crimes he has committed.

“I can’t let them die in vain.”

Her husband studies her carefully. “Just as long as you know what you're getting into.”

She nods.

 _If all does not go as expected, we can head back to Dorne._ _We will always be welcomed with open arms there._

She can go back to Dorne, and leave Lord Bolton behind as if it were all nothing more than a bad dream. She can go back to the Water Gardens, and pretend Ghael is merely away in the service of some grand lord beyond the seas, living the life he always dreamt of…

After a few minutes of impatient waiting, the creaking portcullis rises with difficulty to allow them entrance. Stark and Tully race ahead as she nudges her horse into her home, noting on the way that the gates are newly made.

The guards stare warily as they make their way past, entering the courtyard of Winterfell. Here, she can see for the first time the destruction caused within.

Most of the towers and keeps have no roof, and a few have collapsed entirely. The kitchens have been reroofed, as have the barracks… though she wonders how there are people left to fill them. Dozens of dead men swing from ropes, swaying in the breeze. Their feet dangle, fluttering over the tops of the flimsy tents filling the yard, half buried by snow.

She swallows hard, fighting the urge to scrunch up her nose at the foul smell of decay, and directs her gaze to the two men standing at the entrance of the Great Hall.

Courtesy is a ladies armour, and she is fully ready to wage war. Much as she wants to scream at Roose Bolton for the killing of Robb and Mother and Ghael, she grits her teeth and summons her brightest smile.

At his nod, she passes her reins to a shivering groom and dismounts.

The snow is so thick it almost reaches her knees, and they must surely make a sorry first impression as they struggle forward. Stark and Tully trot at her heels, tails wagging joyously at the new adventure. Once, dogs had skulked around Winterfell afraid, ears flattened as wolves would play. Now, there are no wolves left to fear.

When she finally stands before them, cheeks flushed with exertion, she stares at them with open curiosity. She had seen Roose Bolton only a handful of times as a child, and his bastard never. She was in Ramsay Snow’s position once, watching as her father knelt to welcome queen Cersei.

 _And then she killed him,_ Sansa thinks, as Roose presses his lips to the amber stone of Sansa’s ring.

It was Cersei that had started the downfall of House Stark. She killed Lady, and then her son killed Father. Only a few moons ago she refused to allow Sansa to be Warden of the North. Now, instead of her welcoming Roose to Winterfell, she is the one who must wait to be invited in. She stares wistfully at the grey bricked great hall behind the man as he straightens. He is entirely unremarkable, his face as plain as his garb.

“Prince Oberyn. Princess Sansa.” He is so quiet Sansa has to strain to hear him, and no breath steams from his mouth like everyone else’s. “What an unexpected surprise... it is a great honour to meet your acquaintance."

"And our pleasure."

"The North welcomes you. I present to you my dear wife, Lady Walda, and my son Ramsay Bolton.”

_Snow._

“It has been a hard journey.” She says, blinking back tears. “My friends are wounded and one – one of them is dead. We were attacked on our way here by-”

“Bolton men.” Her husband says.

“Not my men, I assure you.” Roose counters, his soft-spoken tone not changing at the accusation. His lips tilt upwards at the edges though, in a slightly mocking smile. “Are you quite sure you know all the northern sigils, my Prince?”

Oberyn glares. “I know the Bolton’s. They wore the flayed man upon their breast.”

“They were not my men.” He repeats.

“No.” The ugly boy beside him grins. “They were _my_ men, and great defenders.”

A shiver runs down Sansa’s spine as she turns her gaze to him.

 _He has cold eyes,_ Sansa thinks, _colder than Joffrey’s, even._

 _"_ "Not that great." Her husband snorts. "We killed three and captured the rest." 

Ramsay bristles. "Who?" 

"Lord Ramsay, I do not expect a man so recently elevated to know,” She frowns, “but you have injured the heir to the Tor and assaulted a son of the noble Lord Manwoody. My friend Ghael is dead from an arrow meant for me.”

“What recompense will we receive for this deadly welcome?” Oberyn demands.

“My sincerest apologises, and a reassurance it will not happen again.” Roose says. “My son is very protective of his home, and his friends follow his lead.”

 _His_ home?

“I understand.” Sansa grits her teeth and smiles even more. “Inspiring loyalty is a great virtue in a leader.”

“You’ve missed the wedding.” Ramsay says bluntly. “Why are you here?”

“I have never been north. Why not now?” Oberyn shrugs, his smile wild as he places an arm around Sansa. “I have my own she wolf to keep me warm.”

“Can sisters not visit one another?” Sansa says, as Ramsay colours. “I come to offer advice as a wife, wedded and bedded…” She sweeps her gaze around the courtyard. “But I do not see Arya here?” 

“The Lady Arya is grievously ill.” Roose reveals. “She is confined to her bedchamber. The Maesters have permitted no one access lest her illness spread.”

“I see.”

“You must be weary from your journey, and I see ladies and gentlemen need attending to, yours and mine both.” His gaze flickers over the Dornish. “Let us not linger here any longer. Please, come inside and warm yourselves by the fire.”

“We are hungry, as well as weary.” Sansa admits. “We would be grateful for some bread and salt.”

“Of course.” He chuckles. “Where are my manners?”

Icicles hanging from the roof above are slowly melting in the daylight, dripping onto their shoulders as they make their way to the entrance, and Sansa finds herself wishing they’d fall and skewer the Bolton’s necks in a swift and brutal beheading. All her problems would be solved then. 

“Please, come in.”

Men clothed in Bolton pink stare suspiciously as she stands before the door of the Great Hall they guard. It is only planks shoved together with an air of desperation, to shut out the bitter cold as best able.

_To shut out me._

Warily, she enters.


	3. Chapter 3

Once within the hall the wounded Dornish are immediately taken to be treated by the Maesters, followed by the Bolton attackers, but Sansa is caught in the threshold, breath frozen in her throat.

A surge of warm air hits her from the well-lit fires roaring in the grates, but the smoke itches her nose and irritates her eyes that wander over the blackened and burnt walls, the crudely carved wooden boards cover the gaping holes where windows had once been. Despite it being daylight, dozens of candles flicker in the sconces, providing enough light to illuminate the dais at the end of the room draped with the hideous banner of House Bolton.

 _It should be a direwolf._ She thinks mournfully. _Not a flayed man._

Stark and Tully trot at her heels, melted snow dripping off their soaked fur, and though Sansa loves them greatly she cannot help but think Lady should be by her side. 

Behind her, she hears Ellaria’s inhale of breath; doubtless she had expected splendour in the home of the kings of old, but what beauty Winterfell had has been burned away. Her boots ring out on the stone floors as she makes her way between the trestle tables, dress disturbing the stained rushes scattered underfoot. The long tables are filled with hairy men swamped in furs; even the greenest of boys grow stubble on their chins.

If their clothes are drab, the decorations are colourful. All around her the sigils of the north adorn banners and livery. She spies the flame red flag of House Umber with its fearsome giant, the four different coloured horse heads of Lord Ryswell and his sons, and the three evergreen firs of House Tallhart... and worst of all, the blue twin towers of House Frey.

They all turn to watch her as she passes, and she cannot tell if they regard her with suspicion or relief.

“Princess Sansa!” Wyman Manderly, the lord of White Harbor, booms a welcome across the room, waving the chicken leg in his hand high in her honour. She cannot stop the smile that pulls at her lips. 

_He only calls me that for I am married to Oberyn,_ she tells herself… but she cannot quite convince herself of it.

For a brief moment, she allows herself to bask in the centre of attention. She is not an object of ridicule, despite her worry. For so long she had been pointed out only to be taunted and bullied, but here… Lord Manderly, at least, loves her.

“Lord Manderly.” She inclines her head gracefully to the masses. “My lords and ladies.”

Sansa takes the tough bread offered by a servant, nibbling on the stale edge. 

"Princess Sansa, might I introduce you to my good brothers, Ser Hosteen Frey and his brother, Ser Aenys?" Roose says, motioning to each man in turn. 

They are weak chinned and watery eyed and ugly, both inside and out. Their smiles are sinister; she wonders which one murdered her mother or brother.

_Which one will try to murder me?_

The thick crust of the bread sticks in her throat.They’d broken guest right to kill her brother, why would they not do it again? It worked so well the first time. She cannot trust anyone in this crowded castle except her husband and her friends…

Their cool pleasantries are disrupted by hounds running into the room, claws scrabbling on the burnt stone. 

“Ah, my girls are back!” Ramsay grins.

Stark and Tully lift their heads up from sniffing at Sansa’s feet, curious. The pack of hounds come to a standstill as they observe the two spaniels. Spittle froths at the mouth of the nearest, hackles rising in defence, and when Tully bounds forward playfully, tail wagging to make a new friend, it does not hesitate to attack.

Viscous bloodthirsty snarls fill the air, along with the scent of blood, and it seems to send the pack into a frenzy. Sansa is screaming with fear, even as she dives desperately into the fray to save her dog.

There are so many they almost knock her to the floor with their force, and she cannot help but flinch back from their hard compact bodies and slobbering snapping jaws. All the while Tully is yelping in pain, her high whimpers making Sansa shriek and sob as her husband pushes her away and dives in with his dagger. The brutal snap of teeth makes Sansa’s stomach churn, more so when tufts of brown fur flutter to the floor. Blood splatters Sansa boots, as two bodies, three, crumple before they are finally called off. They slink away to their master growling, mouths crimson, lolling tongues dribbling pink saliva onto the bloodied floor. With a horrified choke, Sansa falls forward onto her knees, staring helplessly at Tully’s body. Her neck is torn open beyond repair, blood pouring from the pulsing wound, but she presses her fingers down hard against the bloodied fur anyway. Her sides heave as she pants for laboured breath, and their pain is a living, breathing, connection.

“Oh, Tully.” She sobs, tears salty on her trembling lips. Her little dog thuds her tail once in a weak wag at her voice, and then – stillness. 

She cradles Tully’s dead body, the small corpse feeling a thousand tonnes heavier than she ever did soaking wet in the Water Gardens. Sansa’s ears ring with Ramsay’s roars, but she cannot respond. Her head swims, vomit scorching the back of her throat she swallows back.

“You’ve killed my Willow and Sara and Red Jeyne!” 

Oberyn ignores him entirely, his warm arm around Sansa. She leans into him, his touch anchoring her to the Great Hall where the Bolton’s argue.

“They can easily be replaced.” Roose is curt. “Apologise to the Princess for letting your savage beasts maul her pet.”

At his cold glare, Ramsay turns to Sansa.

“I’m so _very_ sorry.”

Oberyn shifts beside her, incensed at the obvious lack of sincerity.

“Prince Oberyn,” Roose begins, but Sansa cannot bear to hear his excuses and poor apologies on behalf of his savage son. He does it all for show; why should a dog matter to the man who killed a king?

“I’m going to change out of my bloodied clothes.” Sansa says slowly. “And then visit the lichyard.”

Her voice sounds hollow and defeated; half dead herself.

“You can’t bury-”

“As you wish, Princess.” Roose says with a glower at his son. “I’ll have a servant show you to your chambers.”

“There is no need.” She rises with difficulty, still clutching Tully to her chest. “I know my way around Winterfell.” 

She leaves the room mute, blind and deaf to the lords and ladies lining the trestle tables. _Have they enjoyed the great show? Such entertainment must be common place here._ She sniffs, tears dripping into Tully’s fur. _But there are new players now._

She struggles across the yard, stumbling through the snow drifts that keep creeping higher, a path of blood from Tully’s dripping body following her. The scarlet specks are soon neatly covered, erasing her life’s existence entirely.

She walks as if she is in a dream, head pounding in tandem with her boots as she staggers to the Great Keep. Somewhere along the way, Oberyn sweeps Tully easily into his own arms, and Ellaria clutches her shoulder with the hand not holding Stark, steadying her swaying steps.

The Bolton guards lounging in the frigid shadows eye her with open hostility as she passes. Up flights of old stone stairs, along empty corridors, her footsteps leading her to her bedchamber – but when she pushes the door open, no candles are lit to welcome her. The room is filled with a stranger’s items. Boots lie abandoned on the floor, and rings are left scattered across the dresser beside a brush filled with grey hairs. The shutters remain barred to keep out the chill, and the heavy velvet drapes of the four poster bed are not her own.

“Sansa?” Ellaria whispers, but she cannot answer.

 _There is no one here to know._ She realises slowly. _There is not one servant to remember._ _Why would they keep them alive?_

They had purged all of the Stark household at Kings Landing, including Septa Mordane and Jeyne. 

Why spare Winterfell’s workers when capturing the castle? She remembers the corpses swaying in the courtyard, and swallows hard, stumbling out of her old bedchamber to find another. 

Ghael and Tully are both dead, and the sun has not even set on their first day on Northern soil.

* * *

The lichyard lies in the shadows of the First Keep, the very air draped in perpetual mourning. The small mounds of earth are covered with snow, the engravings on sloping stones invisible, half crumbled from weather and age.

But still, she knows.

Sansa squats down, velvet skirts splaying across the snow as white fingertips brush away the heavy flakes crusted to the stone.

_Lady._

She swallows thickly, waiting in earnest for a reply, a response. The bones of her beloved direwolf lie only a few feet below her under the earth, but she feels nothing. No connection flows, as it had when they were alive. With only a look, Lady could growl a warning, and with only a touch, Lady could calm her worry. Now… nothing. Numbness has crept into her exposed skin and burrowed deep under her clothes, clenched tight around her heart. She sits there, knees pressed into the hard earth, caressing the simple gravestone with gentle reverence.

Lady is dead, and a part of Sansa too.

They will bury Tully beside her, direwolf and dog together, and Ghael on Lady’s other side.

She helps dig the graves herself, sweat running rivers down her neck and pooling under her arms, cold on her clammy face as her shovel scrapes at the half frozen snow. Her heartbeat thunders in her ears as she slams the point of the shovel into the thin layer of ice, and she is so aware of the fact she is _alive._ Her heart still beats, her lungs still breath, despite so many others ceasing forever. She takes a laboured breath, thrusting the shovel down further into the near frozen soil, again, and again, and again, and if tears mix with the sweat on her clammy cheeks, no one can tell.

It is her fault, and her penance, but when Oberyn gently takes her white knuckled grip from the hand of the shovel, she doesn’t argue.

She sucks in a tremulous breath, watching as a blind raven hops amongst the headstones, cawing softly.

Oberyn finishes digging under its milky white eyes; he is much stronger than Sansa, so the two holes are finished quickly. Tully’s is tiny, after all. Ellaria had procured blankets from somewhere, and solemnly drapes the dead in them. Sansa trails her fingers over the scratchy wool, blinking back further tears. She doesn’t want to say goodbye so soon.

_Why does everyone I love have to leave me?_

At her weary nod, Oberyn places Tully in her final resting place.

Ghael’s burial is worse, much worse.

The Dornish that accompanied them trickle out of the castle to stand in silent respect, ignoring the stares of the northerners.

“Our lord did not agree to sullying the graveyard with savages!” One calls, lobbing a mouthful of spit. “He should be burnt with Ramsay’s boys you murdered.”

“No,” another says, nudging his friend with delight, “Let him lie with the dogs and old women.”

They laugh, leaving.

Oberyn and Ellaria seem unphased, but others stand scowling in their furs and Sansa feels as if she must apologise.

“You must know not all the northerners think of you so evilly.” She says. “It is only Bolton men. Their lord has poisoned their minds.”

They had not shied away from murdering their friends when the order came. They are loyal… but loyal enough to follow him to the grave if he lost? Or would they go down on bended knee and repent their heinous crimes?

Arron frowns; Dickon merely shrugs.

“If they want to play games, I can make them spit up worse.”

The image of Bolton men coughing up blood and teeth, by Dickon’s clumsy hand, _does_ give Sansa a small amount of satisfaction as they circle around the grave. They stand on the rocky mounds of servants stretching back centuries, who had given their lives for their Stark overlords.

“The servants of old were buried here.” She tells them huskily. “The loyal and faithful. The – the most loved.”

She has seen her father’s head on a pike, so she is not scared to squat down and pull back the blanket covering Ghael to have a final look. She gazes at him for a while, taking in every inch of her friend’s face. His eyes that once glittered with awe are closed. His lips that once tilted upwards into a smile are still. The dried blood that stained his mouth and his chin have been tenderly wiped away, his hair combed, his uniform straightened. 

_He is sleeping like in the Water Gardens,_ she tells herself. _Dozing in the shade… but he will never share his oranges with me again._

“Ghael.” She whispers through aching lips. “Who was not scared of monsters.”

He had not been afraid to die; he had been afraid for _her._

Inhaling roughly, she straightens and allows her husband and Arron to place Ghael in the ground.

 _He died for me_ , she thinks as they begin to cover him with soil.

When the grave is filled and an appropriate time to mourn has passed the Dornish begin to slip away, casting wary glances up at the sky. 

Sansa stands for a long while, wet flakes peppering her hair. The winds grow wilder and the snow flurries increase, but Oberyn and Ellaria, standing in silent vigil either side of her, do not protest.

Her face aches from the biting wind and tears freeze on her cheeks, but she welcomes the pain. She deserves it, after all.

Ghael went to his grave watching her be pulled away, not knowing if she would survive. But she had, due to him. He had taken the arrow meant for her heart, and she can only repay him the best way she knows how.

 _I will live long, for your sake,_ she promises silently. _I will put an end to the bastard and his boys that killed you and Tully both._

* * *

Courtesy demands she converse with the men who murdered her family, her friend and her dog.

 _It is as if I never left Kings Landing,_ she thinks wryly, watching Roose Bolton and his bastard son talk. _They are nothing but the Lannisters of the north._

Sansa’s stained dress has been replaced with another of deep Tully blue, in tribute to all she has lost, and her hands still tingle from her thorough scrubbing. She had taken off her rings and cleaned them so hard they lost their shine, brushing deep underneath her fingernails with soap to remove any possible remaining trace of –

She takes a gulp of wine.

She did not want to think of such things.

_Tully… Ghael… Robb…_

Ramsay had told her as they began the meal that a servant named Reek was looking after his girls, so she need not fear more bloodshed in the hall from his hounds. Still, she left Stark behind in her locked bechamber, with strict orders for Arron or Dickon to follow anyone should they leave the hall suspiciously. She doubts they will want to willingly; outside the wild winds blow but inside the grates have been well stocked, and the roaring fires crackle merrily in the background of the meal. Every so often a spark flies from the burning logs into the air before blinking out, and smoke clings to Sansa like a second perfume.

Shadows leap and dance along the walls from the bodies packed tight amongst the trestle tables, and the hall is alive with a hundred conversations. She is pleased to see the Dornish are not entirely ostracised. Though many northerners glare with suspicion, some brave souls have struck up conversation; Jynessa has already charmed several boys who wait on her hand and foot.

Nearby, a musician sings The Dornishman’s Wife in her honour, winking at Sansa as he does so. Along with the sausages, carrots and pease there are a small sampling of the olives and peppers they’d brought, and Sansa is pleased to see more than one man take a bite.

 _Never let it be said northerners are not brave._

In the middle of the high table Roose and Oberyn are deep in private discussion, and Sansa must sit and strike up small talk with the pregnant Lady Walda.

“Do you have any names in mind?” Sansa asks, watching Roose watch Oberyn.

When her husband takes a bite of meat, so does he. When he takes a sip from his cup, so does he. He is afraid of being poisoned by the Red Viper.

 _Good,_ Sansa thinks savagely. _He should fear the man who toppled a mountain._

“My lord husband will have his namesake, of course.” Walda laughs, spraying crumbs over the pink table cloth. “What of you, Princess?”

“I am fond of the name Harlon, for a boy.” She murmurs.

The Stark king of old had starved the rebellious Bolton’s out of their home over two years, besieging their castle and bringing them to heel, but Sansa does not believe Lady Walda will know the tale.

She plays with the ring around her finger, twisting and turning it nervously as Ramsay leers across the table at her. The more time she spends in Ramsay’s Snow’s presence, the more ill she feels. His lips remind her of Joffrey; fat worms.

“Lord Ramsay,” She says sincerely, “You have a look of the late King Joffrey about you.”

He preens at the insult, and Sansa smiles around another mouthful of wine.

“You’re pretty too. Your hair is the same shade as blood.”

Sansa laughs to hide her shock. “I have never heard it described so, my lord.”

“Blood is the name of my horse.” He explains with a smirk.

Sansa’s cheeks flame, but she will not allow him to make her feel stupid and small as Joffrey had. 

“Do you and Arya go riding together often?”

Arya Underfoot had loved horses so much she looked and smelt like one… if it is her, she would surely want to ride with Ramsay - if only to try and escape. 

“She doesn’t leave her bedchamber.”

“I would love to see her.”

“The Maesters forbid it, and as her husband, _I_ forbid it too.” 

Sansa does not care what Maesters or bastards say. She is Sansa Stark, and she _will_ see her sister.

“What is wrong with her? Is it red spots? I’ve had those before, so there is no chance of contagion.”

“I don’t know.” He grunts. “I’m not a Maester, am I? I saw no red spots last I saw her.”

_So he has been seeing her, despite the Maesters forbidding it._

_Likely,_ she thinks with a shudder, _for conjugal visits. But surely if she is that ill…_

“I will not disturb her if she is at rest, but will you at least let her know I am here? Perhaps the news will lift her spirits.”

Ramsay laughs. “All of the north know you’re here. I bet even Stannis in his peasant’s hovel has heard.”

_Stannis? Surely he does not mean Stannis Baratheon, brother and uncle to kings?_

The last she had heard of him, he had invaded Kings Landing and fled shortly after, but she never imagined he would go _north._ What is worthwhile for him, here? Perhaps he had hoped to snatch this place from Theon Greyjoy; he had waged war against the Ironborn before and won… but the Bolton’s have not brought Theon up in conversation, and Sansa dare not ask.

The answer is obvious – he was killed, long before Sansa arrived.

“Well,” Sansa says lightly, “we had quite the welcome. I must thank you for the feast at such short notice. It cannot be easy to entertain a party with winter on the way and soldiers to feed.”

“It is our pleasure.” His eyes rake up and down her body, lingering on her breasts. Sansa shifts uncomfortably, face hot. Sweat drips down her back. She drains her cup and gestures for another from the cupbearer.

“Indeed.” Roose chimes in. “I doubt we will ever host a Dornish prince and his wife again.” 

“Who knows? Perhaps my travels will inspire others to brave the snow.” Oberyn pops an olive into his mouth, effortlessly calm.

“Let them try.” Ramsay says. It sounds like a threat, a challenge her husband readily accepts.

“Oh, do not tempt them, Lord Ramsay.” Her husband’s smile is beautiful and deadly.

Lord Manderly breaks the tension with a hacking cough. The Lord of White Harbor is flushed red and sweating, sweat beading on his forehead. He lurches forward, coughing frantically, fumbling for a glass of wine. 

“Poison!” Hosteen Frey yells. “Gods be good, the savage has poisoned us all!”

The hysteria spreads quickly to the trestle tables below, but Oberyn only laughs. It booms to the rafters, echoed by the other Dornish and drowning out the panic.

“It’s the _spices,_ you fool. Not everyone would be craven enough to kill men at the dinner table.”

“Say again, snake?” Hosteen snarls.

“I said-”

“You haven’t sampled our gift, Lord Bolton.” Sansa says loudly, cutting across the conversation. “Will you not try some of the Dragon peppers? They are a Dornish speciality, stuffed with goats cheese and onions, and go splendid with the sausages.”

There is a second of silence as she takes a bite of one, before a Bolton boy pipes up bravely from the table below in answer.

“I have, Princess.”

His nose is running, brown eyes bright with tears, and his face looks familiar, but before Sansa can figure it out Roose Bolton is calmly reassuring her no insult was meant.

“I beg pardon, Princess Sansa.” Roose says. “I was so enthralled with your husband’s tales of King Landing I quite forgot my courtesies - but that is no excuse for our men of House Frey. Ser Hosteen? Ser Aenys?” He fixes them with a pale gaze as he reaches for the smallest pepper on the plate offered.

Ser Hosteen glares back for a long second before reluctantly dropping his hand from his dagger, and snatching a pepper. Aenys follows.

It unnerves Sansa, how quiet and unassuming Roose is. Joffrey had been all rage… but Roose is the exact opposite, yet his every word is obeyed without argument, and how is she to trust any man at all?

“Please Sers, do not feel forced on my account. I know you meant no offence by your hesitation – not everyone can handle such heat.”

Hosteen stares at the pepper in the palm of his hand, before throwing it back on the plate. Ser Aenys is bolder, but only takes a few bites before revulsion ripples across his face and he spits it out onto his plate. 

_Craven to the core,_ Sansa thinks with disgust.

Roose Bolton works hard not to pull a face too, chewing rapidly and immediately reaching for wine. Lord Wyman is still gulping down goblets, as fast as they can be filled.

“How much would a full shipment of these cost?” He finally gasps. “I like these greatly.” And to prove a point, despite the pain, he grabs another from the plate.

“You’d have to arrange a trade deal with my brother. He has fair prices.” Oberyn shrugs. “But I wonder what would White Harbor give us in return? Sheep?” He pulls a face. “We have no need for mutton.”

“With all due respect, my Prince, you have never experienced the northern weather. You may not like mutton, but you’ll appreciate my wool when true winter hits. Spices and silks and all the spears in the world won’t save you from frostbite.” He wipes the sweat from his upper lip. “Ser Hosteen can warn you of that sorry fate.”

The Frey glares.The frostbite that took his ear is still evident from the black skin creeping further down his neck, and Sansa hopes shortly the rest of his body will succumb too. 

_The north itself is rejecting them._

She smiles. “I’m sure we can agree on something given time.” 

“We must talk later,” Lord Manderly agrees. “I want to know more of these peppers. Can you import them already stuffed?”

“I don’t see why not.” Oberyn shrugs.

“You can examine our stock if you wish.” Sansa offers. “One must know what they are investing in before pledging coin.”

“Most certainly, Lady Sansa. I might take you up on that later.”

 _Do it,_ Sansa thinks, smiling across the table at him, _and I will make you an offer you can’t refuse._


	4. Chapter 4

Oberyn is invited to talk with Roose in his solar after the feast.

Sansa cannot lie and say she does not fear for her husband in an enclosed space with the man who murdered her brother, but she knows Oberyn will prevail if any fight happened.

_He killed the Mountain._

And clearly, if Roose is inviting Oberyn alone, he believes Sansa is no threat. She is only a woman after all, a wife not even pregnant, so clearly not worthy of important discussions.

 _If I were asked to attend I would refuse,_ Sansa thinks.

She does not want to spend any more time with the Bolton’s than she has to… but sooner or later the events of the day need to be discussed, and she’d rather them get it over with and hash the details out as quickly and painlessly as possible. Many men will need to be punished, and others to be paid, for the harm they have received today.

“I’ll call on you later.” Oberyn promises.

“Be careful.” She warns.

“You too.”

He presses a hot kiss to her cheek. She grabs his fingers and squeezes, and he presses a second, softer, kiss to her knuckles before gently disentangling his hand from hers.

She watches him follow her brother’s killer out of the hall uneasily, arms empty and cold. She has gotten too used to the heat of Dorne...

“Are you having second thoughts?” Ellaria asks, watching her closely.

She needs no time to reflect on her answer. “No.”

Any doubts she had have been well and truly erased. They have killed Ghael and Tully already, and the day is not even over…she takes another sip of her drink, despite Ellaria’s sideways glance.

“This is my last.” She tells her, and means it. She needs to be clear headed when she finds Arya.

“Good.” The older woman says gently. “You cannot drown your grief in the bottom of a bottle, no matter how hard you try.”

* * *

The request comes shortly after the end of the feast, and Sansa is eager to agree.

The candles flickering in the scones cast long shadows over the root cellar beneath the Great Keep. It turns Lord Wyman Manderly’s face devious and kindly in turns as they stroll past the Dornish caskets of wine and coffers of peppers, abandoned by the kitchen cooks after the feast.

Snow falls steadily through the narrow windows, a chill drifting across Sansa’s skin. Ellaria, her ever faithful companion, shudders as Sansa turns to the northern lord, stone cobbled floor cool beneath her slippered feet.

 _We are talking of trade,_ Sansa tells herself, _not treason._

“They come in a variety of shades, but they’re all the same pepper.”

Lord Manderly dutifully examines the red, yellow and green vegetables she presents.

“They’re fully matured when they’re red,” she continues. “but you can eat them at any stage.”

“We are lucky you brought such gifts.” He looks at her closely. "The glass gardens here have all been shattered. Did you know?”

She shakes her head.

“The fruit and vegetables that were to serve everyone are almost all black and rotten, so we were slowly starving until your fortuitous arrival. I believe the pease served were the last of them.”

“Then I am even more pleased we are here.” Sansa says. "It is so nice to see a friendly face, Lord Manderly."

"Please, call me Wyman."

"Wyman." She smiles. "I have fond memories of visiting White Harbor with my father.” 

Last time, Sansa and Wynafryd had been in perfect agreement that their little sisters were far too unladylike.

“How are the Ladies Wynafryd and Wylla?”

“Wylla is as wild as ever, and Wynafryd is constantly praying to the Seven that the fate of her betrothed be discovered.”

“Discovered?” Sansa looks at him quizzically. “He is missing?”

“Yes.” His mouth twitches. “Ser Rhaegar Frey disappeared, along with two of his brothers, after leaving my city… it is a cruel world we live in, Princess, and strange times.”

“Indeed. The heiress to White Harbor… Ser Rhaegar had made a good match.”

_And poor Wynafryd had not, having to be married into that family. Small wonder Roose Bolton seems to dote on his wife. The Bolton’s and Frey’s are clearly cut from the same cloth._

“Far better than he deserved.” Wyman agrees.

“Some would argue I did too."

 _I must speak frankly,_ Sansa thinks. _What point is there in games now? All know the treachery of Roose Bolton, and my rightful claim._

"Technically I was a traitor, despite being a princess of the north… but I am a princess of Dorne now, too. Like Princess Nymeria and her thousand ships.” She smiles faintly. “My sister Arya named her direwolf after her, did you know that?”

He shakes his head. “I know your brother’s was called Summer. Summer, and Shaggydog.”

She nods, swallowing the painful lump that sprouts in her throat. “I named mine Lady. She lies dead in the lichyard now, but the most honoured lie in the crypts. Lord Rickon Stark is there. He married your ancestor Lady Jeyne, who birthed my namesake, Lady Sansa. Her sister Serena birthed the next Stark of Winterfell, and so we are bound by generations of blood. We are _family_.”

Her delicate voice echoes off the weathered stone.

_We are family. We are family. We are family…_

Lord Wyman nods in firm agreement, and Sansa reaches out to gently touch his arm.

“I was so sorry to hear of the death of your son, Wendel. I remember how gallant and kind he was towards me, when I visited your home. He heard I liked stories and made sure to tell me some tales about the mermaids of your court. He was a good and brave man.”

“He was.” Lord Wyman says, tears suddenly shining in his ocean eyes. “As was your brother, and father. I grieved to hear of your situation in Kings Landing.”

“I grieved too, more so when I saw my father’s rotting head on a pike. After, I was shipped to another kingdom to marry a prince, and then I found out they sold my sister to the enemy. Centuries ago we Stark's took the Manderly’s in when they were homeless and alone, and in return they swore to give us perpetual loyalty. I commend your loyalty to Arya, I do, but her husband and his father are usurpers who killed their king and murdered your son. I am the _elder_ daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, with the swords of Dorne backing my claim. Can I count you and yours amongst them?”

He looks at her, a smile toying around his lips, and Sansa wonders what he sees. A little girl, nay a young woman, holding herself taller, chin pointed up with desperate determination.

“Always, my Princess.” Lord Wyman says firmly, and relief floods through Sansa. “I have warships hidden in the White Knife that informed me of your coming. I am at your service, forever. Forgive me I cannot go down on bended knee,” he presses his lips to her knuckles, “but the sentiment remains.”

“There is nothing to forgive.” She assures him. “You have done what you must to survive, same as I… but together, we will get justice for Robb and Wendel, and all those who are not here to see it. I will need a regent to help me rule, of course." 

"Of course." He agrees. “Do not fear, Your Grace, we will sort some plan out. I have less soldiers here than I would like, but I dared not bring too many else raise Roose’s suspicions.”

Even with Manderly’s forces joining the Dornish, there are not enough to outnumber the Bolton and Frey’s; there are hundreds of them.

"I know I can count on you above all others to help me... but the hour is late." She casts a glance out at the night through the frosted window panes. "We will talk more on the morrow."

_If I do not get my throat slit in my sleep._

Wyman nods, entirely understanding. “You have had a hard day. I am sorry for the loss of your dog. What was their name?”

“Tully.” Despite her best efforts, her voice cannot help but crack. 

Wyman looks at her closely, but she does not feel small under his gaze. He does not leer, nor sneer. 

“You look like Lady Catelyn." He says finally, simply. "She would be very proud of you, Princess… and your father and brother too.”

Sansa’s eyes cannot help but fill with tears. “Thank you.”

A rush of emotion washes over her as the old man smiles. 

_He has agreed, easy as that... with only the vaguest of promises of being regent. Surely it cannot be this simple._

Despite her fears, she is smiling as they leave the root cellar behind and climb the stairs.

“I am glad we could come to an agreement.” Sansa says before they part ways.

The kitchen staff eye them curiously, but they are talking only of trade. Not treason. 

_How can it be treason, when the ones in power are false?_

“I will write to Prince Doran as soon as I am able.”

“Nothing would please me more.” Wyman wheezes, and Sansa cannot help but worry if he is quite fit enough to defend her title. 

_He has men though. Swords I do not._

_He is my man._

* * *

Snow falls.

It has been over an hour since she went to bed and it has not stopped nor slowed, only increased in ferocity.

Sansa watches it from her brother's bed. Bran’s bedchamber has been relatively untouched by the fire that had blazed through the castle. She had last been in this room the day they left Winterfell. Her baby brother hadn’t been awake when she'd said goodbye... she swallows the painful lump in her throat, clutching the bedcovers closer to her. 

She had once told him under the covers no monsters could find you, but they were childish stories. She is a woman grown now, sleepless and scared, but her brother - and sister - will always be little to her.

 _Does Arya ever do it?_ She wonders. _Does she hide from her husband?_

If it even _is_ her, locked up and alone. She had not even thought to confirm with Lord Wyman the girl he saw wed was Arya.

_Arya or not, some poor girl is kept here under lock and key… I have to help them._

Oberyn has not called, so she requested her friends stay the night in his place. Jynessa has long since fallen asleep, spread out across half the bed, but Palissa looks around the chamber with obvious interest, the tiniest of smiles on her lips. It is likely the grandest bed she has slept in, despite the damage. It might be her imagination, but Sansa is sure she can still smell smoke. It makes her eyes tear up, and she blinks rapidly.

“Winterfell under my father’s rule was nothing like this.” She says. 

Cuddling up closer to her, Lissa slides her cold fingers through Sansa’s. She watches her closely, those big grey eyes so much like her sister’s it is like a knife to the heart. She _must_ do something.

“I used to share a bedchamber with Arya when we were small.” Sansa whispers. “But she won’t be there now. She’ll be in Robb’s room.”

The heir to Winterfell’s bedchamber is up three flights of stone stairs, in its own tower. Like the songs, there is a lady in dire need of rescue. Lord Manderly, despite his protestations of loyalty and dozens of men, has done nothing, but Sansa will save her.

Fumbling for the knife her husband gave her, she throws the covers back.

“I’m coming with you.” Palissa says, already understanding. “Where you go, I go.”

The pair look at Jynessa, sprawled out snoring.

“She’ll hate being left behind.”

“But her snoring provides good cover.”

It’s a good point. Sansa stares down at her drooling friend.

“Sorry Jynessa.”

Sansa cannot help but shiver as the bedchamber door creaks to a close behind them. Despite the warmth of Winterfell, the heat is leeched from the stone floors underfoot, and they scurry quickly along the corridor. Guards are stationed at the end on either side of the doorway, and Sansa twines her arm around Palissa’s as they approach. Lissa squeezes encouragingly, but the pair make no move to stop them, nor question where they're heading. In fact, the younger one smiles and nods his head in acknowledgement.

“Princess.”

She looks at the guard for a long moment, studying his dark hair and eyes. He is the boy who publicly ate peppers earlier… the boy she had met in Kings Landing moons ago. “I remember you. You spilled your coins in the Red Keep.”

_You squeezed my hand, and said how sorry you were about my sister. How she deserved a better fate…_

“You helped gather them.” He nods, smile growing larger. “My name is Beron, m’lady.”

“Of course. How could I forget?"

He flushes, but despite his good deed she cannot help but look at him with suspicion as the pair pass through the doorway. 

_Does he know where Arya is now? Why has he not told me? Why does he not stop me?_

The wind howls outside like a wolf, but Sansa is not afraid. She will find her sister. 

Together her and Palissa climb, creeping up the stairs with shallow breathes born from chests tight with fear. Each flight of stairs is quieter than the last, and Sansa prays they meet nobody on the narrow steps of granite stone that twist tightly up and around, and around. How easy it would be to collide into a body, to be pushed, slipper meeting only air as they fall... 

No candles burn in this part of the castle; the wax covered sconces are empty. It feels as if the very darkness is seeping into her goosebump riddled skin, as if she and Lissa are the only two left alive in the world. Them – and Arya.

 _I’m coming,_ she thinks fiercely.

“Did you hear that?” Lissa whispers, her breath dancing on Sansa's ear, ruffling a strand of hair.

She shivers as she shakes her head, tightening her grip on her knife. Cold sweat imprints the patterned hilt into her clammy palm as they creep forward, every limb tensed. 

Thick cobwebs, the spiders long fled, tickle the tops of their heads, and their noses twitch from the heavy dust that coats the crevices of the old blackened stone. How had Winterfell turned to such ruin? It is nothing but a graveyard... 

A loud creaking sound nearby distracts Sansa from her absent mourning, sending shivers darting down her spine. She freezes to the spot, the taste of blood blooming on her tongue as she bites down hard.

Was it a door? Does Arya know she is near? Or is it Roose and Ramsay, come to kill her? 

_It is an old castle. There are always creaks and drafts in the middle of the night..._

All the same, she quickens her pace.

With Lissa at her heels she surges into the empty corridor, which stretches forward as dark and silent as a grave. The only light is from the moon, shining in through the diamond latticed windows lining the outer wall.

Snow falls.

Fat flakes cling to the glass before slowly sliding down to form icicles come morning. They swirl in the wind, tossed from the blizzard that whistles around Winterfell. 

_We are in the eye of the storm,_ Sansa thinks. _But the danger will pass._

Lissa's footsteps fade behind her as she hurries forward past the silver patch of moonlight, impatient to find her sister and have the ordeal over. She is sure a shadow moves nearby...

Heart hammering in her chest she runs the rest of the way, skirts flying around her weak knees as her feet pound on the old stone. Behind, there is a sudden commotion as Lissa tries to keep up. 

Gasping for breath, Sansa staggers to a stop outside the large thickset door, imposing in its regal size. The snarling wolves carved into the old wood have been burnt off, she realises with distant dismay, but that is expected. The Bolton's would want no reminder of their predecessors to haunt their sleep... 

What strikes Sansa as odd is that there are no guards at the door. 

She did not expect them to greet her as Beron did, but to have no one there at all...

If the Maesters – or Bolton’s - had forbidden access to Arya, surely there would be someone close at hand to enforce the rule? She imagined having to force her way in by right of blood and marriage, for they would surely not leave Arya unattended, ill or not. Every entrance around the castle has guards either side, but there is no one here. No candlelight shines from the chambers suggesting an occupant sleeps within…

It is deserted. 

The door looms invitingly before her.

Sansa's skin crawls. Lissa’s breath is hot and musty on the back of her neck. 

_It’s a trap_ –

She whirls around.

Ramsay Bolton smiles at her.

Sansa screams.

His face is bone white, as are his eyes and his lips are pulled back into a wide, leering red smile. It is a grotesque image, summoned straight from her nightmares, and Sansa’s scream withers and dies quickly, half caught in her throat with shock and fear. 

_Nobody will come,_ she realises, vomit rising up her throat, bitter in her trembling mouth, _they are used to such sounds here._

How long had he been there beside her? His breath on her neck, inches away in the dark…

_Lissa-_

Shock freezes her in place, so Sansa can only cry out in pain as Ramsay’s hands fist into her hair and yank at the roots. She stumbles forward, scalp on fire. Her free hand reaches upwards, clawing at him, but he only laughs at her feeble struggle and the sound of her pain.

“You’re not taking Winterfell from us, you ugly she-wolf.” Ramsay chuckles, and suddenly there is a wickedly sharp knife in his other hand.

He plays with the thin silver blade, tilting it this way and that, holding it up close to Sansa's cheek. The delicate edge traces the tender skin of her cheekbone, and she trembles. 

_He means to flay me._

“But you’ve given me a great hunt. I’ll name my next bitch Sansa-”

She slashes out wildly with her knife.

It cuts through the sleeve of his doublet into his skin, and he bellows with rage.

Before she has time to flee, Ramsay clamps down onto Sansa's wrist and _twists._ Her knife drops to the floor forgotten as she shrieks in agony, knees buckling as the snap of her bone breaking reverberates throughout her body –

And then Ramsay is screaming too, as his arm and the blade he held fall to the floor.

Hot blood sprays across Sansa’s cheeks, coppery on her lips as her husband wrenches his sword out from what was Ramsay’s armpit. Sansa’s stomach heaves; Ramsay screams. More blood splatters across the trio. Oberyn's face is tight with fury, eyes blazing as the bastard Bolton boy staggers, swaying unsteadily. 

His pale eyes are shining, and as Oberyn thrusts his sword through his heart he smiles. It is horrible, worse than tears, and she trips backwards dizzily, almost falling over her own blood soaked feet. 

_He is not scared,_ Sansa thinks distantly. _Even his own murder, he finds amusing._

Snow falls.

The bastard topples to the floor on top of his detached arm. His death rattle echoes in the corridor, and when the choked gargles finally stop the quietness threatens to smother Sansa. 

“Sansa.” Oberyn drops his sword with a clatter that makes her flinch, hurrying to her side. “My love – let me see.” 

She drags her numb arm up, head spinning, and when she sees the unnatural angle of her bone she almost vomits. 

“Lissa.” She croaks. "Where - where is she?!"

Fear makes her forget her wound, and she slips in the pool of blood beside Ramsay's body without a second thought to find her friend. She does not need to look far; just before the stairs Palissa lies motionless. 

"Lissa!" Sansa says loudly, voice tinged with hysteria. 

_I can't lose Lissa, not after Ghael -_

In the moonlight her fair face is deathly pale, and there's a large lump on her forehead. She's staring up at the rafters with great concentration, eyebrows furrowed.

"Sansa." She mumbles after a few long seconds. “What happened?”

Sansa lets out a hysterical giggle as relief rushes through her. “I don’t know.”

_How had Ramsay known? More importantly, how had Oberyn known? Ramsay is dead. Dead!_

“I’ll get a Maester to examine you both.” Oberyn promises. When Sansa turns to him, his eyes are shining with tears. “Forgive me, I should have come sooner -”

“How did you know where we were?” 

“A man called Reek came to me. He warned me about Ramsay. He told me not to go against him.”

So naturally, he did the opposite, but for once, Sansa cannot be upset. If he had not come in time-

She trembles wildly.

“And he also told me the room where Arya Stark is imprisoned. I was almost in time to save you from harm. You should have waited for me!”

“I did!”

He swears, raking his hand through his hair. “I should never have let myself be distracted by Roose-”

_And I cannot let myself be distracted by you._

Here they are stood arguing, when her sister lies in wait nearby -

A wild madness takes over her and then she is running back down the corridor, panting for breath, numb arm flapping by her side. This time, she does not hesitate - but the door is locked.

Of course it is locked. Why did she expect it to be open?

_Because he'd had no guards, because he'd planned this trick, because he is - was - evil, evil, evil._

She rattles the door knob desperately, fingernails scrabbling uselessly at the wood.

“I don’t know where the key is.” Tears of frustration bloom in her eyes. Ramsay’s blood is still hot on her lips. “Where would he keep the key?”

With Roose...

“You don’t need a key.” Oberyn murmurs beside her. “Step back.”

It is an eternity for him to break the lock and open the door, and then Sansa is shoving past him into the room, all grace and courtesy forgotten. 

“Arya!”

She whips her head back and forth in the freezing air. No fire burns in the grate, causing her harried breath to unfurl out before her. The bed is crumpled and empty, the blood red velvet hangings slashed open. 

“Arya?” She gasps. “Are you here?”

A faint rustling sound comes from the shadows. From the corner of her eye, she sees a pile of blankets move. Dust motes dance in the air as a skeletal hand emerges from the swathes of fabric and fur, long pale fingers clawing to extricate themselves.

Sansa sways.

_He has her sleeping on the floor like a dog._

“Arya?” She whispers. “Is it – is it truly _you?_ ”

A faint tremulous sob replies.

She twitches, taking a step forward. 

The coverings pool into a puddle over the floor as the girl finally frees herself.

Her thin nightgown is tattered at the hem and near see through. She is painfully thin, and covered in bruises, and when she stares up at them her hollow eyes are _brown-_

Sansa chokes on a gasp, grabbing at her husband’s sleeve, for he must know, he doesn’t know, that’s -

“ _Jeyne?”_


	5. Chapter 5

A ghost sits beside Sansa.

Jeyne Poole is swaddled in blankets, and still shivering. She is devoid of any colour except that of the Stark sigil. White skin, grey bruises… and brown eyes. 

Jeyne is Arya, and Arya is dead.

 _I had expected this,_ Sansa tells herself. Only the girl using her sisters name was always an unknown foe, someone to hate… not _Jeyne._ Jeyne, who she had shared strawberry pie with. Jeyne, who she had giggled over boys with. Jeyne, who was her best friend.

Her _dead_ best friend.

As they ushered Jeyne away from her prison and past her husband’s corpse, she had looked up at Oberyn and smiled, suddenly radiant despite her gaunt cheeks and empty eyes.

“You killed him.”

Then she had clutched Sansa tighter, as if she were afraid she would disappear. She holds her still, her brittle and broken fingernails digging into Sansa’s arm.

Sansa squeezes back tightly, not daring to let go lest she be ripped from her by Bolton guards. Any minute they could burst in unannounced and murder her in retaliation… but she cannot hate Jeyne for the mess she has made. She would never have agreed to such a plot. She knows Sansa better than almost anyone, and Sansa knows her. If Jeyne was ambitious, she would not have reacted to Sansa’s arrival so desperately. She would have tried to murder her, as her husband had. The same husband who left her sleeping on the floor like an animal…

The only man that forces Jeyne to let go is the sleepy Maester Oberyn had summoned on his way to visit Roose Bolton's bedchamber. He had gone immediately to inform him of his son’s justified murder, which Sansa judged wise. He deserves to know his son is dead… and if he found out from another, he would be told lies.

“Definitely broken.” Maester Medrick concludes with a mere glance at Sansa's wrist, hiding a yawn with the back of his hand. “But when I reset the bone it will be as good as new.”

Sansa looks at him horrified.

“A little salve to numb the area will suit us fine, I think…”

He gestures for Sansa to lay her arm on the table nearby. The Maester had come prepared from Oberyn’s brief message, and she watches nervously as he reaches into the pockets of his robes and brings out a small bottle. He dabs lightly at her bruised wrist, and even that leaves her gasping in pain.

Maester Medrick cradles her wrist between his hands, a look of intense concentration on his face. And then –

There is an audible crunch as her bone sets back into place. Tears stream down Sansa’s clammy cheeks at the shock, and only Ellaria’s quick hands stop her crashing to the floor.

“There.” He says, satisfied. “I’ve reset it.”

Sansa nods weakly.

When he’s finished fitting a simple splint he meets her weary gaze.

“Come in the morning for a cast. If it hurts, snow will help bring down any swelling.”

_Luckily we have no shortage of that here._

She drowns her dizziness in the ale offered, watching wordlessly with Jeyne as Lissa’s head wound is examined. The lump on her forehead is the size of an egg, already starting to bruise.

“Here.”

While she watched, Ellaria had twined a piece of silk into a make shift swing.

Sansa swallows the last of her ale, shaking her head. “That’s your scarf Ellaria!”

She smiles at her outrage. “It is far too flimsy to use here.”

“Yes, but-”

“It is donated to a good and worthy cause.” Ellaria says. “And it will do until you get a cast.” 

She ties it around Sansa’s neck as the Maester turns to his final patient.

“I must examine her alone.”

Jeyne noticeably stiffens, tightening her grip on Sansa’s hand, and for a moment she thinks both her wrists will be broken. She shakes her head firmly.

“No. You can do it here, as you have I and Palissa.” 

“Very well.” He swallows. “Lady…”

“Jeyne.” Sansa says softly.

“Lady Jeyne. Is it possible you are with child?”

Her eyes widen.

“We don’t need to talk about that now.” Ellaria says sternly, swooping in to save them. “That can wait until the morning. All three of the girls need _sleep_.”

“Yes.” Maester Medrick quails at the Red Viper’s mistress. “Yes, you are quite right.”

He leaves urging Sansa to visit him on the morrow, and Ellaria shuts the door behind him with a smothered sigh. Sansa wonders what she’s thinking. Surely she did not expect such horrors when she first set out north. Sansa had always described Winterfell as majestic and welcoming - and it was, when Stark’s were in charge. They would never treat Jeyne so!

Her friend shivers wildly as Sansa wraps her arms tighter around her. She is so small…

“He made me.” She whimpers, the blankets slipping from her shoulders. “I swear… I didn’t want to Sansa.” 

She doesn’t know if she’s talking of Roose forcing her to be Arya, or Ramsay forcing her to…

“I know.” Sansa says gently, adjusting the blanket around her with her good hand.

They sit there in silence for a while, watching the fire crackle.

Sensing her distress, Stark jumps up and settles himself on Sansa’s lap, licking her hand in comfort. Jeyne shrinks away from him, clutching the blankets closer to her.

“He won’t hurt you.” Sansa says, cuddling him tightly. “He’s not like Ramsay’s hounds.”

Jeyne bobs her chin in a nervous nod.

“I won’t let anything or anyone ever hurt you again.” Sansa vows.

“Girls.” Ellaria smiles softly. She holds a tray sent from the kitchen between her hands, laden down with goblets. “I’ve had some hot milk made for you.”

“Thank you.” 

“And I’ve sent Jynessa to another bedchamber, to share with you, Palissa.” 

The older Dornish woman places the tray down carefully, giving the first one to Jeyne. She hesitates, looking to Sansa who nods encouragingly. Jeyne takes a tentative sip.

“You must sleep now,” Sansa says, “with no fear. The guard at the door, Arron Qorgyle, is loyal to me, not the Bolton’s.”

Still, she lingers in the doorway. “You’ll join me?”

She nods. “As soon as Oberyn is safely back.”

That strange twitching smile creeps up on her lips again. _It is as if she has forgotten how to,_ Sansa thinks as she leaves _._ She turns to Palissa, but her friend is already rising.

“I’ll talk to Jeyne.” Lissa says quietly, frowning. She is still frighteningly pale. “I –”

She shakes her head as if to get rid of a sudden thought, and quickly follows the other girl out.

It is the first time she has ever been unable to find words, and Sansa’s stomach turns.

She had never inquired about her friend’s past, only knowing she is an orphan like her. It had been up to Lissa to divulge her secrets, for the older girl had never asked Sansa for hers. She had given them freely, and expected nothing in return but comfort. Sansa will comfort Lissa for the rest of her life, if need be, to make her feel better. Jeyne, too.

She inhales shakily, staring down at her hands in her lap. They are red again, only a few hours after being cleaned of Ghael and Tully’s blood, and could it only be this time yesterday they were all aboard _Ladies Favour,_ filled with excitement?

How quickly time changes. Just like that, Ghael is dead. Tully is dead.

 _Ramsay_ is dead.

They had left him there in the hallway, his blood soaking into the stones of Winterfell. It seems appropriate; he had spilt so much, why not end it with his own?

It has dried heavy on her cheeks… 

“Sansa.” Ellaria crouches down beside her. She stares teary-eyed as the older woman gently sweeps a strand of hair back from her face. “I’ve laced the milk with a pinch of sweetsleep to make you all sleep soundly. Any dreams will be pleasant, and without pain.”

“Thank you.” The kind gesture threatens to make Sansa collapse into wrenching sobs right there and then, clutching her second mother like a babe.

“Does your wrist hurt?” 

She shakes her head.

“When the shock wears off I worry you’ll be in great pain.”

Sansa laughs, without humour. “I am used to it. So is Jeyne, it seems.”

It is not fair they should take medicine to stop their suffering only long enough for a good night’s sleep. Come morning, they will remember what happened. The scars will remain. Sansa’s stomach churns; she had seen the teeth marks on Jeyne’s collarbone, the bites sinking deep into the swelling of the top of her breasts… branded like a prize cattle. Chewed on like a piece of meat, a _toy –_

She shudders.

Stark licks her chin, nuzzling deeper into her lap.

“You have lost a sister today too.” Sansa tells her dog, tears welling.

Stark whines, nuzzling under her arm, and she clutches him close to her as Ellaria gently wipes her face and hands clean, the bowl of warm water turning red.

The fire in her belly that brought her here has frozen, for Arya is not alive... but Jeyne, her best friend, is...

All she wants to do is sleep, for a week or more. She fights the feeling, for she has to be awake to ensure Oberyn is well. What if he has been thrown in the cells, or slaughtered by Roose in revenge? He had no qualms of killing a king, why not a prince?

She is watching the flames die in the grate, fingers twining around Stark’s curls when the door alerts her to Oberyn’s return. She whips her head around, any trace of fatigue vanished as her husband enters the room. He takes off his lenses and rubs his eyes as he comes to sit beside her. His collar is still bloodstained, his cheeks crusted with dried drops. 

“He didn’t seem to be bothered by his death at all. A mild inconvenience, if that.” He frowns, for her husband loves his girls, bastards though they may be. “I told him losing a hand was the penalty for touching a princess of the blood royal. He did not argue against me.”

Her own hand is hurting now, the area around her wrist throbbing in continuous waves of pain, and Jeyne is Arya, and Arya is dead, and Ramsay is _definitely_ dead, and Ghael –

She starts to cry.

She sobs for Tully and Ghael, and Jeyne… she sobs over Arya, and doesn’t know if she’s sobbing from relief or regret. 

Oberyn folds his arms around her, and she sobs even harder, face buried into his chest.

“You have had a horrific day.” Oberyn murmurs, running his hands soothingly through her bedraggled hair. “My brave girl. You need to sleep now.”

She nods with agreement. Sleep sounds like the best idea Oberyn has ever had, more so when he gently picks up and carries her into the bedchamber next door. Jeyne is already unconscious, and Oberyn looks at her closely while settling the sheets around his wife. He says nothing though, only presses a kiss to Sansa’s forehead and passes her the almost cold milk Ellaria had made earlier.

“Wake me if up if it gets too late.” Sansa says after she takes a gulp.

She has people to talk to. This Reek, for one. If he had not told Oberyn of Ramsay she would surely have died by his hand…

“I will.” He promises. He puts a warm hand on her cheek, and she presses into his touch. “I love you.”

She smiles, feeling the sweetsleep already trickling into her veins, dulling her senses. “I love you too. You saved me."

She looks at him with bleary awe, wondering why the Gods graced her with a husband such as him. A warrior to fight her battles, to best her enemies, to love her so passionately...

"I didn't do enough." He frowns. "Your wrist-"

"But I'm alive." She pats his cheek clumsily. "And so is Jeyne..." 

Oberyn leaves with a great air of reluctance, hesitating at the door until Sansa downs the rest of the milk in one. He stays there, keeping watch as her eyelids grow heavier, and she falls into sleep feeling safe, despite fearing the repercussions of their actions come dawn. 

* * *

She wakes up slowly, and for a long while her head is empty of fear and pain. All she can think of is her dream, where Ghael had sung so sweetly...

Only when she turns and sees the girl snoring softly beside her do the events from the night before rush back… and with them, her agony. Ramsay had attacked her and Jeyne - Jeyne was Arya. Her sister was long dead, as she had always known.

She hisses in pain as she rolls onto her back, wrist throbbing, but the ache is good. It’s a reminder. She endured Joffrey, she can endure this.

_I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell._

She looks over at Jeyne again. She is at peace in slumber, matted curls spilling out across the pillows.

_She will be stronger too; I’ll help her._

There is a quiet knock at the door, but Jeyne does not stir. Sansa slips from the bed and pads across the floor, opening the door. Ellaria stands at the other side brandishing a tray laden with food to break their fast.

“Sansa.” She whispers, eyes roving across her face and down to the sling, now dangerously lax around Sansa’s neck. “How are you? And Jeyne?”

“She is still asleep.” Sansa murmurs, waving her in with her good hand. 

“You must eat to build your strength then. Jeyne, especially, when she wakes. She is far too thin.” Ellaria’s dark eyes stray to the bed, where Jeyne does not stir.

“Shall I wake her?” Sansa says. “It seems cruel. She looks… peaceful. Another thing I must thank you for.”

“You already thanked me for it last night, not that you needed to. Your well being is all the thanks I need.”

“Oh, Ellaria.” Sansa throws her arms around the older woman impulsively, awkwardly, and they laugh softly, a mess of entangled limbs. She presses a kiss to Sansa’s forehead.

The food is simple fare; oats flavoured with honey, and toasted bread slathered with jam, but for Sansa it is a meal fit for a queen. It takes her a while to eat, her fingers flexing awkwardly around the spoon, rattling into the side of the bowl. More than once her food slides off the edge and she has to try again, to her frustration. She curses under her breath, to Ellaria’s amusement, and stoutly denies her offers to help. She has already done far more than enough; she has to do something for herself… but apparently not eat oats with her left hand. 

The sounds of her struggles wake Jeyne up.

“Sansa?” She says drowsily, still half caught in sleep. “Are you sure I’m not dreaming?”

“I’m sure.” Sansa promises. She _is_ sure; she could never have conjured something so awful. “We have oats and toast, if you’re hungry.”

“You must eat, Lady Jeyne.” Ellaria says, and Jeyne startles.

“I – yes. I can eat.”

Ellaria helps Sansa settle the tray over Jeyne’s knees, propped up against the pillows. Jeyne whispers a thank you, and Ellaria smiles.

“It is my pleasure.” She says. “And either of you must call me immediately if you need anything.”

“We will.” Sansa says, and Jeyne nods. 

When the door shuts behind her, a heartbeat passes, two, and then Jeyne turns to Sansa, brown eyes shining with tears.

“Nobody has called me Jeyne in so long.” She confides. “Oh Sansa, I’m so sorry, I never-”

“I know.” Sansa quells her confession with a gentle squeeze of her hand. 

It is just Sansa and Jeyne together, like the times of old. Except they are in Bran’s bedchamber, not her own, and Bran is dead, and Arya is… Jeyne.

“It was kind of her, to bring this to me.” She says tentatively, nibbling on a crust.

Sansa nods. “People say I should hate her for being my husband’s mistress, but she is like a mother to me.”

“I’m sorry for what happened to Lady Catelyn.” Jeyne says.

“So am I.”

She can’t imagine being married into the family that helped murder her. Roose Bolton as a father in law could only be surpassed by a Lannister. 

“I can’t remember my mother.” Jeyne whispers, for Lady Ellyn Poole had died when they were young of a lingering sickness in her breast. Some called it heartbreak, for all her children but Jeyne had died.

 _We are the last of our houses,_ Sansa thinks sadly.

“There was only ever Septa Mordane.”

“I saw her head.” Sansa blurts. “After – _after._ Joffrey made me look at it.”

Jeyne stares at her, wide eyed.

“Oh Sansa.” She breathes, slipping her hand into Sansa’s. They clutch each other desperately, two broken girls trying to hold each other whole. Their time in Kings Landing is a lifetime ago. How they had laughed and giggled at the handsome knights in the Hands tourney… She wonders what the good Septa would think to see them now, a wife and a widow.

“Do you remember that time she made us make dolls to practise our sewing?” Sansa says into the silence. 

They were young, too young to sew well, and one could scarcely swoon to a doll with half its stuffing falling out. They were sad creatures with lopsided eyes and fraying clothes.

“They were ever so ugly. We couldn’t play with them.” She shakes her head at her young foolishness. “We could never be happy pretend marrying _them_. So after I’d said the vows under the Heart Tree I threw it in the pool and pretended he’d drowned.” Sansa lets out a laugh.

Of course it was very tragic, but as a young woman mourning her husband she’d had plenty of handsome suitors to mend her broken heart. Dolls her father had bought her, with velvet clothes and pearls for buttons. 

Jeyne stares at her for a long moment.

“I think mine ended up in the fire.” A giggle slips from her lips. It is a strange sound, not heard for an age, and somehow that only makes Sansa laugh harder, and Jeyne too.

They laugh, gasping for breath, until they are both crying, tears pouring down their cheeks as their ribs ache.

“Oh Jeyne.” Sansa wraps her arms around her frail friend, noting with misery the sharpness of her bones through her pale, bruised skin. She inhales shakily. “I promise, nothing bad will come to you now. Ramsay is dead, and _I_ am here, and I will never make you marry.” 

They hug tightly, drawing strength from each other’s weak body.

In halting breathes and shuddering gasps, a tearful Jeyne tells her what happened since they were last together. How she had been forced into a – a _vulgar –_ lifestyle, before being ordered north. When she tells her what Ramsay did, Sansa wants him resurrected so Oberyn can kill him again, and again, and _again_.

"I'm so sorry." She hiccups on a sob. "Please forgive me Sansa, _please-"_

"There is nothing to forgive - and nothing to fear. The Bolton’s won’t ever hurt you again.” Sansa says fiercely, and whispers in her ear exactly what she’s done, and what she’s going to do.

* * *

Maester Luwin’s turret has been burnt down to rubble, so the Maester’s have taken a bedchamber as their makeshift library and infirmary. She had left Jeyne in the capable and caring hands of Ellaria to venture across Winterfell with Oberyn and Palissa. Sansa desperately needs a cast for her arm, and she wants to check on Myria too.

“Her fever broke a few hours ago.” Maester Medrick answers as he checks Lissa’s head wound. “But she lost a lot of blood. She’s sleeping, but it will help her heal faster.”

Lissa goes to sit with her for a while, promising to alert Sansa if she awakens. Sansa watches her go miserably; she would rather watch a sleeping Myria then endure the ministrations of Maester Medrick. She hopes Palissa is feeling well after last night. She wonders how her talk with Jeyne - 

Sansa gasps as Maester Medrick tilts her wrist one side to the other, peering at it closely. It is a vivid purple with ugly bruises and swelling, and Sansa bites her lip anxiously. 

“It won’t heal crooked, will it?” She asks with strained concern. “My handwriting will be ruined. Mother always said I had the best penmanship of the whole family.”

Oberyn squeezes her other hand tight, and she clings to him.

“It is my fault. If your letters are unreadable, blame your husband for being too late.”

“I thank the Gods you came at all." She frowns, for he had said the same last night. "Rather a broken wrist than a neck.”

“True.” He kisses her forehead, holding her close. “But I still hate myself for it… I swear, I will make it up to you.”

She pouts. “Lemon cakes?”

“Always.”

“And hair ribbons?”

“Certainly.”

“Jewels too?”

“Why not?”

She smiles, finding herself looking forward to his coddling, for she is sure there will be much of it.

“Thank you.” She says when the ordeal is over and her cast is fitted, heavy and cumbersome around her arm.

“No, Princess, thank _you._ ” Maester Medrick says quietly, fingers latching onto her cast. His eyes flit around the empty chamber nervously. 

“The bastard… he was married to another, before your friend. He married my lady Hornwood. He locked her up,” his eyes bloom with tears, “and she ate her fingers before starving to death.”

Sansa stares at him, aghast.

“What I mean to say,” Maester Medrick clears his throat, forcibly blinking the tears away. “is that House Hornwood remembers, Princess. The North Remembers.”

* * *

The clock shows it is past midday, and Oberyn insists Sansa eat.

Maester Medrick had recited a list of instructions how to heal her wrist, but all she can think of is his lady’s fate. Trapped in a tower, starving to death… Sansa is lucky only to suffer from a broken wrist. She shudders, huddling further into her furs as she and Oberyn make their way across the courtyard to the Great Hall. It would do no good to slip and break an ankle too – though the way events are unfolding, Sansa would not be surprised.

She knows the only reason the Bolton’s and Frey’s have saved her from a grisly fate so far is because of her marriage to a Martell. They won’t want to anger a prince with a whole kingdom free to attack. Dorne took no part in the wars of the Five Kings; they have plenty of swords to pledge to Sansa and her cause, more for their prince, and every single one in the kingdom if she or him were to die, even by some strange accident.

The stink of the decaying dead in the courtyard hits her harder than ever as she walks past.

 _When Roose Bolton is dead,_ she determines, I _will order them buried with the rest.... if able._

The main gate they had entered through only the day before is now unusable due to the sheer amount of snow, the portcullis frozen shut with a thick layer of ice.

 _Nobody can get in._ Sansa thinks. _Nobody can get out._

“Oberyn,” she murmurs, pulling him into an alcove to avoid the main path where they might be overheard, “can you do me a favour?”

“Anything, my love.”

“I need you to tell Lord Manderly to come to our chambers at the hour of the Wolf. We have been discussing trade treaties, but no formal document has been drawn up yet to sign.”

“I can do that. Is there anything else you’re planning I can partake in?” He whispers, breath hot on her neck. “You know I support your scheming wholeheartedly.”

A Bolton man walking past averts their gaze as Oberyn slides his arms around her waist and pulls her close. 

“You don’t need to charm me.” She smiles into his chest, gazing up to look at him. “Doubtless you’ve already charmed the serving girls, but I need you to find some more… _fearsome_ friends. Perhaps Hother Umber?”

_Surely a man named Whoresbane will be an appropriate companion for the Red Viper._

“As my little wife commands.” He presses a warm kiss to her forehead, and Sansa can’t help but lean in to his touch, smiling.

“You can’t call me that soon. I’m growing taller.”

“You’ll always be small to me. Small in stature, but large in spirit.” He says with a rakish grin, and Sansa’s heart flutters.

Her cheeks are hot as they step back onto the path, and despite the enormity of what lies ahead she cannot help but feel her spirits are slightly restored. 

When they enter the Great Hall, she immediately notes Roose is absent from the high table upon the dais, where only Lady Walda sits eating voraciously for two. Sansa is also ultra-aware of the eyes fixated on her, especially when her husband leaves. Oberyn saunters to mingle with the enemy with an eager smile, while Sansa sits down next to an indignant Jynessa.

“You should have woken me!” Jynessa exclaims. “I missed all the action! Arron had to tell me!”

“That’s a good thing.” Sansa shudders.

“How’s your wrist?”

“Better… I think.”

“Good. The world is certainly better without him in it.” She takes a bite of bread, fearless of the Bolton men nearby with their dirty looks.

“Where’s Roose? Has he said anything?”

“He left to get all the bad blood leeched out of him.”

 _That won’t help him,_ Sansa thinks. _He is rotten to the core._

“He didn’t stay long, only to announce the death of his son-”

“Death?” Sansa interrupts. “Not murder?”

“He said his son died a fool for touching a Princess inappropriately, and that all knew the old penalty for striking one of the blood royal was to lose a hand.”

 _And an arm. And their life._

“And the people are accepting the loss of his heir.” Sansa ruminates, gaze travelling across the hall.

A Bolton soldier eyes her.

Her skin itches.

“Well, Lady Walda has had her belly on full display all morn.”

_How clever. What does it matter of the sticky end of his bastard, when a legitimate child grows in his wife?_

The Frey’s will have welcomed the death of Ramsay, rival as he was to their kin’s babe. Even his own father doesn’t seem upset at the news, and who else would mourn? Maester Medrick, and the men of Hornwood? All seem to hate Ramsay except his Bastard Boys who killed Ghael, and his bitches who mauled Tully to death… and Sansa wagers even they will forget him quickly. It is only Jeyne she fears for, who bore the brunt of Ramsay’s evil. What she went through will not be easily forgotten.

“Did he mention Jeyne at all?”

Jynessa nods vigorously, leaning in closer. “Of course. He said he and his son had been tricked by the Lannister’s into accepting a prostitute as Arya Stark… I wouldn’t let your friend in here, Princess. The Bolton’s and Frey’s are determined to blame _her_ for it all. They’re painting her out to be some grand schemer with ambitions beyond her station.”

“How can they say that?” Sansa splutters. “Jeyne was my best friend and she knew her place. She would never go against me, or be a - a _prostitute_ willingly!”

“They talk of imprisoning her for impersonating a noble.”

“No.” She shakes her head firmly. “I won’t let them do that to her. She has already been a prisoner in Robb’s bedchamber.”

_For it is Robb’s bedchamber. Never Ramsay’s, never._

She eats a bowl of beef and ale soup fuming at life's cruel mockery. Jeyne had once dreamed of marrying Robb, Sansa knew. She blushed every time her brother came near, and when Sansa had been very small she’d encouraged the idea.

“Then we’d be sisters in truth.” She had said, before she grew and realised a stewards’ daughter was no fitting wife for the future lord of Winterfell. Still, as her best friend Sansa would make sure Jeyne would find a good match. Someone deserving of her.

_And I’ll do it still, if she wants. And if not, I will help her find peace another way._

Perhaps Jeyne would find comfort in a Motherhouse, or the Water Gardens of Dorne; perhaps Winterfell holds too many scars for her now. But Sansa will support her whatever her decision; she owes her that much after all she has endured. 

Her stomach tightens with guilt, and she pushes her half eaten bowl of soup away unable to wait any longer. She cannot let any more innocent people be harmed on her account.

“Jyn,” Sansa says, looking at her friend. “You need to help me.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More dialogue than description in this one but I wanted to post it asap. One chapter left!

Behind the Great Hall, there is a long gallery. It is primarily used for entertaining guests, but on many a rainy day Sansa and her siblings had ran up and down the narrow room, dodging servants as they raced each other. 

It is here Sansa and Jynessa find Lady Jonelle Cerwyn, sat reading by a roaring fire. 

The woman looks up nervously when the pair approach her, arms entwined and smiling. 

“Lady Cerwyn.” Sansa smiles at the maid. She is twice Sansa’s age and still unmarried, despite now being the head of House Cerwyn.

“Princess Sansa.” She says nervously, closing her book and tucking a lock of brown hair behind one ear. 

_She is so shy. Perhaps she will take more convincing than I thought…_

“Lady Cerwyn, this my dear friend Lady Jynessa Blackmont, heir to Blackmont.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Blackmont.”

“And I you.” Jynessa grins.

“May we sit?”

She colours. “Yes, yes, of course. Excuse my poor manners-”

“Your manners are perfectly pleasing. In fact, we came here to thank you, Lady Cerwyn.”

She blinks. “Thank me?”

“For allowing us safe passage through Cerwyn land on our journey here.”

“Oh.” She says. “I – It was my pleasure, Princess Sansa… Lady Blackmont.”

Her eyes twitch to the lord’s door at the back of the Great Hall, as if expecting Roose to appear and rebuke her.

“I was so sorry to hear of Cley’s passing.” Sansa says. “And your father, Lord Medger.”

Her eyes fill with raw pain.

“Thank you, Princess. My father’s death was expected, but Cley… he was too young.” She swallows, and Sansa sees the change in her dark brown eyes, her despair turning to firm determination. “As were your brothers.”

“Yes.” Sansa says, taken aback by her sudden boldness. “They were. Jynessa here is lucky, for her little brother still lives.”

“Perros is my junior by seven years, but I was never cast aside at his birth and treated as a lady’s maid to a babe who happened to have male private parts. I heard you had to cook for him and your father like a common housewife – except you have no husband, do you?” The Dornish girl eyes her accusingly.

“All your life you have been ruled by men.” Sansa says softly, leaning forward and bridging the gap between them. “Even now, you must sit in silence while murderers and rapers hold your fate in their hands. In Kings Landing, I watched while King Joffrey killed my father and tore tongues from singers mouths. I was stripped half naked before all of court and beaten, powerless to prevent any of it.”

From the corner of her eye Sansa sees Jynessa gawking, but she focuses on Lady Jonelle’s sympathetic gaze. 

“I know what it is like to play pretend with men who have killed your kin; how you dare not speak against them from fear of attack, but we can do something, together, Lady Jonelle, to stop those who try to intimidate and control us. You can go back to your home and mourn your family in peace, if that is what you want… or you could be a treasured companion to a princess in want of friends.” She smiles earnestly.

“I- how would _I_ help?” Jonelle's mouth flutters uncertainly. “I…”

“You do not need to make a decision now. Choices like this take time to decide, but if you want to discuss it further, you can come to my chambers tonight, at the hour of the wolf. Lady Dustin will be there.”

“She will?”

Sansa nods, and prays her claim will not prove false.

* * *

She expects to find Dickon in the gallery or the Great Hall, but when she sees no sign of him she deduces he must have returned to the Great Keep. The Dornish so far have ventured nowhere else in Winterfell, and have taken to running between the two buildings in their haste to avoid the cold. In the maze of grey corridors, Sansa finally finds him sat in an alcove, brooding gaze staring out across the courtyard.

“Dickon.”

He turns. 

She did not expect to find him bleeding.

“What have you done?” She blinks, caught off guard by the red stained handkerchief pressed to his swollen mouth.

He smiles ruefully. More blood spills onto the cloth. “The other man is worse, Princess.”

She sighs, stepping forward. “Here, let me.”

“You have a broken wrist.” He reminds her.

“And you a broken lip.”

“What a fine pair we make.” 

They share a smile, and while he’s distracted, she plucks the handkerchief from his hand. He huffs, but he can’t argue against a princess. She dabs gently at his war wound.

“What happened?”

“Just a stupid fight.” He shrugs it off, but Sansa cannot help but frown at his indifference. 

“It’s not stupid if you got hurt.” She presses firmer; he winces.

“I’ll recover by tomorrow.” He says. “What of you, Princess? Are you well?”

“No. I need your help. It’s why I came to find you.”

His eyes light up. “Do you need another body to dispose?”

“No!” She laughs, despite herself. She removes the handkerchief; his lip is certainly swollen, but the bleeding has stopped. For now.

“The opposite, actually. The Tower of Joy, where my aunt died… it’s under your father’s domains, isn’t it?”

“Yes…”

“Lady Dustin’s husband died there.” She explains at his bemused look, passing the handkerchief back. “My father buried his body under the cairns, and I was wondering if we could retrieve them.”

Dickon thinks on it for a second, hand ruffling his thick curls in thought. “Probably… but quite a few men were buried there, were they not? We wouldn’t know which bones were his. Not unless your father buried artefacts with them.”

“But you could try?” She presses.

Maybe Lord Dustin had an ancestral sword, like Ice.

_If it came to it, Lady Dustin would surely not know which bones were her husband’s…_

“Of course. I’ll write to my father.”

She smiles gratefully. “Thank you.”

“Anything for my princess.” His smile turns sober the longer he studies her. “I’m sorry about your friend… and your sister. And Ghael.”

“Me too.”

They smile sadly at each other. Sansa blinks back tears. She doesn’t want to think of them. She would rather think of Dickon, sliding his hand gently over her cast, squeezing encouragingly.

“I fight poorly.” He laughs quietly, gesturing to his lip with a smile. “But I’ll fight for you all the same. The north will too.”

His confidence is comforting, and she cannot help but wrap her arms around him. He makes a small noise of surprise before his arms tighten around her. He smells like Dorne, the salt of the seaclinging to him along with the heat of the sun, and she inhales deeply. 

The scent calms her, and when she finally withdraws she is filled with renewed vigour to win back all she has lost. 

* * *

She has a kind word for everyone.

Torrhen’s Square is led by Lady Eddara Tallhart, a girl of Sansa’s age, named for her father. She is sure, she tells the Tallhart men, that they will be firm friends when Eddara is rescued from her imprisonment. After all, who knows more of being a hostage than her?

Her grandmother, she tells the Flint men, was from a different branch of the same tree, and her sister Arya’s namesake.

It is easy, so easy, to draw them into conversation, to make them laugh.

 _Too_ easy.

She cannot help but look at their smiles with suspicion, so when she finally musters the courage to talk to the haughty Lady Dustin, her obvious annoyance is refreshing.

“Lady Dustin.”

The widow regards her through narrowed eyes. “Princess Sansa.”

Ryswell men cluster around her, and the Bolton’s beyond them.

 _They circle like lions,_ Sansa thinks, _but they are only men, and I am a wolf, building my pack._

“Might I introduce my dear friend, Lady Jynessa, heir to Blackmont?” Sansa smiles at the widow. “Jynessa, this is Lady Barbrey Dustin, of Barrowton.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“It is.” Sansa agrees, smiling at the older woman. “I am told you looked after the lady Jeyne on her journey to Winterfell. I must thank you for ensuring her comfort.”

She snorts. “I gave her little of that, I assure you. That beast of Bolton was a horrendous fate.”

“I thank you all the same. It must have been hard as a widow to accompany a young girl to her wedding. I heard much and more from my father of his friend Willam’s bravery.”

“Yes,” she spits the word with venom, “the Bolton’s are cruel it’s true, but you Stark’s have treated me worse. I loved your uncle, and he left me to marry your mother – only he had the good fortune to die beforehand. Your father was no better. He ordered my Willam on a grand adventure, and never returned. He didn’t even bring me his bones. He brought me back his _horse._ ”

Her laugh is bitter, infused with a vengeance nursed a decade and more.

 _Is that who I will become,_ Sansa thinks, if _I fail to act?_

“As a wife myself, I can only imagine your pain.”

Her heart clenches at the thought of Oberyn dead. She remembers vividly the moment she thought the Mountain had killed him, slumped in the bloodstained sand…

“I have seen the cairns where my father laid his friends to rest, and can assure you it is a place of beauty… but Willam is surrounded by sun, not snow. My good friend Dickon Manwoody says his father will retrieve Lord Dustin’s bones for you, if you wish. One belongs in one’s home.”

Barbrey blinks at her, suspicious. “That is a kindness your father never offered.”

“We women must support each other.” Sansa says. “Now, more than ever. There are so few of us in positions of influence… we should talk of it later, in my chambers. Say, the hour of the wolf?”

“I’ll be there.” She promises, easy as that. Her smile is feral. “And my men.”

“That is good to hear, Lady Dustin.” Sansa smiles. “I do not wish to disturb you any longer so I will take my leave now… though I do have one question for you I hope you can answer. I don’t suppose you know a man named Reek?”

* * *

He haunts the castle, Lady Dustin said, and Sansa has wandered almost entirely around the ruins of Winterfell before she spies the back of the bedraggled figure.

He looks like a ghost; with his white hair, he almost blends into the mounds of snow that surround them.

 _He smells like dogs too,_ Sansa thinks, wrinkling her nose as she steps forward. Not that it matters; what he told Oberyn certainly saved her from further harm.

She clears her throat. “Ser, I must thank you for your good service."

His back visibly tenses at her voice. 

"Your actions saved my life last night. If there is anything I can do for you, anything at all-"

His shoulders heave with obvious distress, and Sansa trails off. 

_Is he crying?_

Compassion makes Sansa move forward and outstretch a hand. The man turns -

His eyes are sunken, his face gaunt and thin, and when his trembling lips part she sees a dozen teeth are missing in his splintered mouth. He is so ugly, so _old,_ it takes her a few long seconds to realise who it is stood before her. 

_Surely that is not..._

Sansa sways, spots dancing before her shocked gaze. A true ghost. 

_“Theon?_ ”

The man who murdered Bran and Rickon stands before her, broken and defiled.

Revulsion rises in her. 

_He killed my brothers but saved me._

“Reek.” He says forcefully. “My name is Reek. It rhymes with weak.”

 _It makes perfect sense why Roose and Ramsay had never mentioned him._ Sansa thinks absently. _They knew he was here... they wanted me to find and confront him._

Her mouth flutters, trying to catch up with the situation.

“You’re not weak.” She says finally. 

_How could he possibly be weak, killing two boys?_

“My husband, Oberyn… he told me what you did. How you warned him of Ramsay’s nature, and told him how to find Jeyne.”

“You killed him.” He looks at her with wonderment. “Not weak Reek.”

“Oberyn killed Ramsay, but you were the one who saved us. I, and Palissa, and Jeyne.”

He is a male mirror of her broken friend, shaking and whimpering beneath her gaze.

 _What did Ramsay do to him?_ She frowns. _Why do I care!? He killed my baby brothers, and didn’t even mention their wolves. Did he make scarfs out of their skins?_

“You saved us but it will never make up for Bran or Rickon, do you understand? Rickon was only _four._ And Bran had only just come around from his accident-” Her voice breaks off with agony, stomach contracting with pain at the memories. 

His pupils flit madly back and forth, darting to the empty courtyard and then back to her furious gaze.

"You were our ward Theon, we loved you and you betrayed us. You _murdered_ them-"

"I didn't!" He blurts. 

The birds stop singing. Wind whistles around the pair. 

“I didn’t kill them, they’re still alive!”

Sansa automatically takes a step backwards at his lie, bridling with disgust.

“How can you say such a thing?”

He is worse than Joffrey, worse than Ramsay. At least they admitted to the evil they caused. 

“Because it’s the truth.” He sobs, and then he is falling at her feet, knees buried in the snow as he claws desperately at her hand as if he were a man drowning. His fingers are stubs, and she cringes, trying to pull away-

“I swear it, Sansa, _please_. I said Ramsay couldn’t be trusted, I saved you and I saved them-”

“Saved them from what? Growing up?!” She says shrilly and pushes him backwards. He hits the ground hard enough to break a bone, grunting as tears of her own flow down her cheeks. “I don’t believe you!”

She _can’t._ First news of Arya, who turned out false. Now Bran and Rickon… she cannot let her heart suffer the pain again.

“They were just miller boys. Farm children who-”

“Stop lying!”

She can’t listen to anymore of his mad ravings. Turning around she strides away through the snow, but it feels more like fleeing, his sobs and hers echoing around her.

 _The north is filled with liars,_ Sansa thinks dully. _More than Kings Landing._

* * *

Arya is dead, but Theon is alive… but Theon is Reek, and Jeyne is Arya, and Bran and Rickon are definitely dead. _Aren't they?_

Her mind spins in a continuous, confusing loop as she ices her wrist with freshly fallen snow. The drifts are rising by the hour, and as people seek shelter indoors one cannot turn without seeing an enemy.

By the time they are called to feast, tensions are higher than ever, and they are not helped by Roose standing at the high table, raising his goblet to her in a public peace offering.

“I would like to apologise profusely to you, Princess Sansa, for my sons actions towards you. I dearly hope Dorne will be satisfied by his death.”

“Oh, I am sure my brother will be.” Oberyn says with a smile. “I, on the other hand…”

Sansa quells him with a look. Must he make things worse by agitating them? 

The rising snow and thick ice have made it impossible to dig a grave now, as Roose announces to the room.

“My son will be burnt on the morrow, and his ashes will be scattered.”

 _Let his ashes be eaten by worms_ , Sansa thinks, and then immediately thinks otherwise for she does not want the worms to suffer. _Poor worms._

“What of his widow?” Lord Ryswell questions. 

“She remains in mourning.” Sansa says quickly, before Roose can answer. “She is bereft at his passing.”

After sitting and taking a deep gulp of wine, Roose clears his throat and turns to her. “How do you fare?”

She lifts up her wrist to show him the cast. “I am well on the way to recovery.”

“I apologise for my son’s behaviour.” Roose says. “I thought something like this would happen, and sooner rather than later.”

Perhaps it is the shock, but he does not seem to grieve; no tears form in his pale eyes.

He notices her surprise.

“I will not pretend to mourn my son. He was beastly and uncouth.” Roose says. “But he was - regrettably - my blood.”

_And the Lady Arya is not mine._

“I am sorry about your son, Lord Bolton.” She says quietly. “And even sorrier about Arya.”

“We were duped.”

 _We?_ Does he mean to pretend he had no idea too? Nevertheless, she paints on a sad smile.

“We were.”

_All the northerners thought you were a good man before you killed their king._

“And you continue to be.” Ser Aenys says. 

Sansa has a bad feeling that the Frey and Bolton alliance is stronger than ever. After all, the Frey’s had nothing to lose with Ramsay’s death, only more to gain.

He looks across the table at her, dark eyes glinting slyly.

“I saw you and the serpent’s mistress sneaking into the cellars last night with Lord Manderly to plot treason.”

So much has happened since that meeting it takes her a moment to remember what he speaks of, and when she does a shiver runs down her spine.

_Treason. It was treason, Ser Aenys speaks true._

“We were talking of trade.” Sansa says.

“A likely tale!”

Grizzled Lord Stout stares at the Frey disbelievingly. “She’s a little girl, with all the follies and frailty of the female sex.”

“Aye,” Lord Ondrow Locke agrees, peering at Sansa, “her mind is far too weak to plot treason.”

“She was not too weak to murder Ramsay!”

“It was her husband who did that.” 

“They plotted it together.” Aenys hisses. “And who is to say I am not next?" 

Oberyn shrugs. “A savage dog needs putting down.”

Aenys’ hand flies to his sword, and Sansa’s to her husband’s arm. If he is to fight now, even on her behalf it will be a bloodbath. 

“My lords, if we fight each other, how will we ever hope to gain victory over Lord Stannis?” Roose says, mildly chiding the pair. 

His words prove a useful distraction, for Sansa had forgotten of Lord Stannis entirely. She had been more concerned with the last Bolton than the last Baratheon.

 _How,_ Sansa wonders, as Aenys backs off with a glower, _is his quiet whisper more powerful and threatening than the loudest scream?_

“I mean to arrange an attack tomorrow.” Roose continues. “Prince Oberyn, would you care to join? You have proven your skill in killing, and the Red Viper amongst our ranks would certainly be an advantage.”

_Especially if he were to die._

“You flatter me.” Oberyn laughs as Sansa clutches his arm. “I will think on it.”

“Surely your wife wants you to fight for the north?” Roose tilts his head, gaze slowly turning to Sansa.

His eyes bore into hers, lips curled up with faint amusement. 

_He knows._

Sansa beams widely. “Nothing would please me more.”

“Then it is settled.” Roose says. “Tonight, we plan our attack.”

* * *

“He has outmanoeuvred us. He _knows,_ Oberyn!”

“He suspects.” He takes her hands in his, kissing her cast. “As any man in his position would. He is paranoid, but he has no proof.” 

She is plagued with worry. “The nobles won’t tell him, will they? And they _will_ come? I am sure Lord Manderly will, but Lady Cerwyn is nervous and Lady Dustin hated my father.”

“I have made firm friends with Hother.” Oberyn chuckles. “You know, he used to attend the Citadel too? Why, I wager we probably crossed paths once or twice-”

Tonight she is simply a terrible wife, for she cannot bring herself to care about his long winded tales of summers long gone.

“Did you ask him if he would come tonight?”

“I visited the kitchens earlier while Palissa entertained Jeyne.” Ellaria says. “I made sure to extol all your virtues, so if the lords and ladies do not show at least we can start a servant’s revolt.”

“Oh Ellaria,” Sansa sighs lovingly, squeezing the woman's hand. “You are too good to me.”

“You have done all you possibly could to convince them.”

_Have I?_

She feels like she could have done more.

“I met with the man they call Reek earlier.” She shivers. “It is Theon Greyjoy.”

Oberyn looks at her. “The squid lordling? He is not how I pictured him.” 

“He’s gone mad Oberyn. Truly, deeply. He’s lost his mind. He insists he’s called Reek, and he doesn’t believe he killed my brothers. He’s convinced himself they were two farm boys instead.”

“And you doubt him?”

"You don't? My sister sleeps in the room next door, Oberyn. My sister, _Jeyne Poole._ ”

“You make a fair point.” He concedes. “But why would he make such a tale up? He has nothing to gain-”

“Because he’s lost his wits, I told you.” She snaps, gritting her teeth. “And who will support me, if my younger brothers are out there somewhere?

He looks at her affronted. “Well I hope you would think _I_ would, for one.”

Of course he would.

She does not doubt his loyalty; his is the only one she can be certain of. Even if she faced death he would be there beside her. 

“Sorry.” She apologises. “It is no excuse, but my wrist hurts.”

Oberyn strokes her shoulders to calm her. “Let me soothe your pain.”

“I fear you can’t, not right now. All of me is hurting, Oberyn, and my heart worst of all. I’m so… scared.”

“I will attend Roose’s little war meeting, and make my excuses when appropriate to return in time for ours.” He kisses the nape of her neck. “I will be by your side whatever happens, I promise. This will all be over soon.”

“I hope so.”

“I _know_ so.”

He seems certain, but Sansa is not convinced.

* * *

At the first strike of the hour of the wolf, lords and ladies gather in secret.

Lord Manderly sits at Sansa's right side, and pale Lady Cerwyn on her left, and they are only the first to arrive. Others come too, friends they have called upon and more.

Hornwood retainers arrive on behalf of their dead mistress, and Lord Rsywell enters flanked by his sons, to take a seat beside his daughter Barbrey. There are Tallhart men too, and Flint men from the Mountain Clans. 

She cannot help but sag with relief when Oberyn enters unharmed. He winks when Hother Umber takes a seat, followed by Lords Stout and Locke, men who had called her weak and fragile earlier.

She considers sinking to her knees and begging for protection, playing on their notions of womanly weakness but why should she?

 _They fought for Robb, they should fight for me… and if they don’t, the Dornish will. But they will,_ she tells herself, _else why would they be here?_

 _To spy,_ a voice whispers, _to gather evidence before bringing you down. You’ll be strung from Winterfell’s walls just like Bran and Rickon._

She doesn’t even know what excuses they have given to Roose to leave his war council on the eve of a hastily planned battle. He must know why they are absent, why they are here instead.

 _They_ know why they are here… so it is how she begins, before Roose can strike. 

“You know why I have gathered you here.” She says simply.

She thinks of Myria, still recovering from the arrow wound, and Jeyne with her bruises and bite marks. Theon, so lost in torture he thinks himself an innocent man, and _Ghael._.. 

She lifts her wrist, encased in its cast. “This is only a small fraction of the pain caused by Roose Bolton and his son. For years, he and his bastard have spread nothing but brutality and death. One has been killed, but the other remains at large, supping at the late Lord Eddard’s table and sleeping in his bed. He has married his son to an imposter and slain my mother and brother, King Robb himself. Legend says there must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and I am here now. Will you help me stop him?”

The question hovers in the air, trembling between them as Sansa finishes with a sharp exhale. Her eyes sweep over the lords and ladies in turn, but none speak. She trembles, though she’s not sure if it’s from fear or anger.

_Both._

And then Lord Manderly climbs ponderously to his feet.

“Always!”

His encouragement rings in her ears, echoed by his men.

A tremulous Lady Cerwyn nods. “It is the right thing to do.”

The Flint's and the Hornwood's join the cry, and Lord Ryswell too - but Sansa is more interested in his daughter. She eyes Lady Dustin, whose lips are pursed with consideration. She is staring at Dickon.

“You swear you will get my Willam’s bones back?”

“On my life.” He promises. “I will write the raven to my father now, if you have parchment, quill and ink.”

“Your word is enough - for now.”

She is spared from answer by Jynessa, planting her hands on her hips.

“Do not fear, Princess. Blackmont and her men are with you whether in Winterfell or Dorne.”

"House Manwoody too." Dickon says firmly, chin tilted upwards with determination. 

"And Qorgyle!"

“I hold no lands or title, but I am with you.” Palissa agrees. “Forever.”

Beside her, Jeyne nods emphatically.

“As am I.” Ellaria says softly.

Sansa turns to look for her husband, and her eyes widen with surprise. He is down on his knees as if he is a common soldier, desperate for just one look from his liege lady. To see a Prince of Dorne so humble…

She stares at him wordlessly as he smiles up at her.

“You know you have Dorne.” Oberyn says huskily. “You have my heart and sword entirely.”

She places a hand on his cheek, her own heart melting at his words and the look of pure love in his dark gaze.

He lays his sword at her feet, the other men in the crowded chamber following suit, and the sound of a dozen swords being unsheathed before her makes Sansa shiver.


	7. Chapter 7

The guards outside Roose Bolton’s rooms are easily overpowered by the might of Sansa’s forces.

When they burst into the Lord of Winterfell’s chambers, Roose is sat reading a scroll. The table before him is littered with maps and books from the war council Oberyn and others had attended earlier, but all the strategies planned will be worthless now.

“Is this a coup, at last?” Roose says mildly, raising his head. His pale eyes flick to each of them in turn. “Even you, Lady Cerwyn? I’m shocked.”

She flushes, but Sansa, flanked by her husband, juts her chin up defiantly. 

“How so, Lord Bolton? Your bastard murdered her brother, just like you slew mine.”

“Our king!” Lord Wyman booms.

“The murders of King Robb and Lady Catelyn Stark,” Sansa’s voice trembles, “supporting the imposter Jeyne Poole as the noble Lady Arya and usurping the seat of Stark… do you deny this treason?”

“Only the last. I have been made Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North by royal decree.” Roose continues.

_The words of a bastard._

"The words of a _Lannister_." Sansa's lip curls with disgust. "Take him to the cells."

Roose is pushed and shoved along the hallway to his cell by a mob of Northerners and Dornish alike, his doublet ripping and his hair pulled from the haste of their eager hands. He will be lucky not to escape with bruises, if not spilled blood, but they won’t harm him grievously. They’ll leave that to her. 

“What of his men?” Lady Dustin asks.

“Bolton alone will atone for his sins, like his son before him.”

_And his men will thank me for my mercy._

“But I won’t make him a martyr. I want peace, not more war. There has been far too much of that.”

She has no desire for the Lannister’s to come after her, and if she beheads him publicly he will only become a rallying point for their cause, just liker her father became for the north. 

_I never asked for any of this. I am the eldest daughter, and the only one left alive, so the burden must fall to me. Unless Theon speaks true-_

“So, what do you suggest, Princess? The Night’s Watch?” Wyman frowns.

“Imprisonment, for now.” She says. “Perhaps for life.”

“His wife is pregnant.” Hother Umber reminds her, but Sansa had not forgotten.

“And when she gives birth to the future lord or lady of the Dreadfort, I will congratulate her.” Sansa says calmly, but the subject of pregnancy reminds her of another that might be with child. 

“What of the Frey’s?” A man bearing the livery of House Tallhart asks.

“Ser Aenys and Ser Hosteen will join Roose in gaol, of course.” She says, and orders Oberyn and Manderly men to arrest the Frey brothers and put them in a cell furthest away from their ally.

Roose cannot help them now. They depend on Sansa alone to live… and unluckily for them, she does not think fondly of Frey’s. 

When she has dismissed the lords and ladies with promises and plans for the morrow, she turns to Ellaria.

“Is there a way to… _help_ a girl if she might be with an unwanted child?”

“Moon tea.” The older woman looks at her so tenderly it makes a lump rise in Sansa’s throat. She squeezes her shoulder. “I’ll brew some.”

Relief rushes over her. “Good. Thank you.”

Ellaria leaves, and she is left alone in the middle of Roose’s disturbed bedchamber. The papers from the table scatter the floor now, the candles burning for no one.

_What happens after you overthrow a lord?_

She kneels down, carefully picking up the pieces of parchment before casting them in the fire. Then she stands, hugging herself in the middle of her father’s room.

When she had been little, she used to crawl into the big bed after a nightmare, cuddled up between her parents. 

She supposes she should sleep now, but she doubts she can. Besides, she has no desire to sleep in Father’s bedchamber with the hangings and drapes still firmly Bolton. Striding up to the bed, she yanks at the fabric with her left hand with all her might, and then drags it over to the fire. It takes her a while, for she won’t allow Oberyn to help when he enters, and she is gasping for breath by the time she kicks the putrid pink fabric onto the wood.

Chest heaving, she sits on the edge of the bed beside her husband, and watches the flayed man burn all night long.

* * *

Pale yellow sunlight makes the frosty morning feel like the dawning of a new world. Beautiful, but deadly if one does not take it seriously. It turns her red hair a bright copper as she climbs the steps of the Great Hall. Or, as Ramsay had said, as red as blood…

“The envy of all.” Ellaria announces with a smile. "Beautiful." 

"Thank you." Sansa smiles weakly in return. 

"I am so proud of you."

"I couldn't have done it without you." Sansa squeezes her hand. "You-" her breath hitches, "you have been a mother to me, in the absence of my own."

She runs an anxious hand over her intricate braids as she takes a nervous breath.

All the people within Winterfell lie through the door before, awaiting her arrival.

She doesn’t know what they’re thinking. Good things, hopefully. She needs to explain and reassure them she will treat them far better than Roose. She needs to convince them that her taking the castle from under his nose was only a restoration of the ancient heirs of winter. Her fingers shake, and Oberyn seizes them between his own and squeezes.

“They love you.” Oberyn whispers. “Remember that. You would not be standing here if not.”

“ _You_ love me.”

Of that, at least, she is certain.

But, they would not have come to her meeting in the dead of night if they did not believe in her.

They do love her… and if they do not yet, she will _make_ them.

She takes Oberyn’s arm and nods at the guards to open the door.

Skirts sweeping, she enters the Great Hall. Her husband escorts her the length of the hall, to the chair on the dais, and kisses her cheek as he leaves her, to the envy of maids and ladies alike. She is sure even Hother Umber looks jealous.

Stiff backed in Father’s chair, she rests her hands on the wooden arms, fingers stroking the carved wooden wolves. Father had sat here long ago, and Robb and Bran after him… and now her.

She looks out at the Northerners. The lords and ladies are smiling, and Lady Walda is respectable if pale. After all, her husband is still alive… and she supposes even Lady of the Dreadfort is a higher prospect than she ever hoped to get. There are the Dornish too, and even a frail Myria clutching Jynessa’s arm.

“I have called you all here to inform you that Roose Bolton has been imprisoned for the murders of our families." She says, talking slow and steady to avoid the nerves making her voice tremble. 

_Why should I be nervous?_ She tells herself, belly blazing with righteousness. _We have done the right thing, together._

"Family means everything, as I am sure you know."

She looks at the widow of Barrowton, stood nearby with what looks like approval gleaming in her eyes. 

"Lady Barbrey, your husband went to Dorne and died defending my father and his friend from those that would do him harm."

She catches the gaze of Wyman in the front row, flushed with victory.

"Lord Manderly, your son Wendel died at the wedding of my uncle, alongside my brother Robb."

Her eyes sweep over the Tallhart men, and the Hornwood men, whose ladies are dead or held hostage, and Hoster Umber whose nephew remains at the Twins under lock and key. 

"We all lost someone we loved at the Red Wedding, where my brother was slew by Lord Bolton himself. I am the only Stark that survives, and I do not intend to have our loved ones die in vain. Under Lord Eddard’s rule, a maiden could walk the Kingsroad unmolested, and I am his eldest daughter. Those that commit crimes will be justly punished, and together we will bring peace to this kingdom again. Together we will heal from the harm monsters inflicted upon us for I am your daughter, your sister, your mother. I am your liege lady, and princess.”

In the aching silence that follows her speech, Lord Wyman roars his fealty, demanding his men help him down on bended knee.

One by one, lord and ladies swear loyalty to her, praising her bravery and eloquence. 

Theon drops to the floor a shaking mess, staring up at her like she is an Old God incarnate.

“You’ve got rid of them.” His hands caress her slipper in wonder. She twitches her foot. “You… you are my lady. Princess Sansa-”

His voice breaks, and Sansa cannot look at him as Oberyn helps escort him away… but the people who appear next do little to restore her spirits. 

The Frey's refuse to submit, stalking out of the hall, but Sansa is not fussed.

"They are from the Riverlands. They submit to my uncle, alone." 

They have no presence here, but she has not stripped Lady Walda of the Dreadfort, and the former Frey quivers before her pale faced. Frowning, Sansa moves forward, helping Walda up from her cumbersome curtsey.

“Please, do not worry." She squeezes her arm. "I fear your babe will suffer if you worry, and I do not want to harm my future godchild.” 

“Your future-” She blinks, startled. “Your Grace, you honour me!”

Sansa smiles. "The honour is all mine. Why, with you as their mother and I as their godmother, I do not doubt they will grow up to be valiant and brave.”

_And loyal to their bones._

The Bolton men might grumble, but they are the ones outnumbered now. If they are outspoken, she will have them killed. They took part in the massacre too, under instruction from their lord, and only her mercy is preventing them from a similar fate. The majority of the men in Bolton pink mutter their vows, but Beron says his loud and enthusiastically, and begs leave to tear of his flayed man livery and adopt the direwolf. 

Mors Umber leaves a trail of melting snow in his wake as he plods to pledge fealty to her. He had been lurking nearby Winterfell, planning ways to help his brother inside, and brings a group of green boys and old men to bolster her forces. She accepts them with open arms.

“Stannis is encamped nearby.” The gruff man warns her. Crusted snow clings to his unwashed beard. “He’ll send an envoy soon.”

Sansa does not want to think of Stannis Baratheon bothering her, so soon after getting rid of the Bolton’s.

Already, Abel the bard - who now calls himself Mance Rayder, wilding king - composes ballads in honour of her coup.

“An ode to your beauty and bravery.” He declares, before revealing he had been sent by her half brother to rescue Arya.

“Jon?” She blurts, startled.

He nods, grinning.

_Would he have done that for me?_

“I am not Arya, but I am the Lord Commander’s sister all the same... and you have saved me from silence.” She smiles. “You can keep singing songs of me while I send a raven to the Wall.”

* * *

She dare not favour one lord above others, so there is no nominal head of her regency council.

Lord Manderly is a member, as is Hother Umber, and Ladies Dustin and Cerwyn. She had to repay them somehow, and to have four different voices offering input on affairs is only an advantage to ensure all decisions made are fair. Theon Greyjoy has already offered up intimate secrets of Roose Bolton and his bastard to spare his life, like the ladies of Winterfell imprisoned in the Dreadfort. 

_Beth Cassel, and Old Nan if she still lives..._

A crew of men under the command of Hotherand Arron Qorgyle are assembled to liberate them from their gaol, but the question still remains on what to do with the castle.

“Treachery is in Bolton blood. How many have rose in rebellion against your family, Princess? Centuries have passed, yet they never learn. They need to be extinguished, root and stem.”

“You suggest killing a pregnant woman?” Sansa says, staring at Wyman with disgust. “Lady Walda is the rightful owner of the Dreadfort.”

“And the Frey’s are just as devious!" Hother grunts.

"We should raze it to the ground.” Barbrey agrees, but Sansa cannot. 

“No more castles are being burnt.” She frowns. “Is Winterfell not enough?”

They are instantly contrite, murmuring their apologies.

“Lady Walda will remain here at Winterfell as a guest along with their men, and Ser Aenys and Ser Hosteen will remain imprisoned. Depending on their behaviour, they will be exchanged for the Northerners their family hold hostage, or executed.”

But as soon as one problem is sorted, another issue is raised.

Men sworn to house Tallhart appeal for her aid as Torrhen’s Square is held by Ironborn, all while Stannis Baratheon camps mere leagues away in the opposite direction, and a bitter argument ensues over which shall be dealt with first.

Sansa watches them talking and hesitates, sure the council will dislike her next decision. 

“I want to sue for peace.”

They stare at her. 

“Bend the knee?” Wyman says. He is not angry, but extremely disappointed, and Sansa shakes her head. 

“ _Never!_ ” Sansa declares. “But winter is coming, and we cannot afford to waste resources. We will use words as weapons, not swords. Stannis Baratheon does not need to fight us for we support his cause. Of course we support him against the Lannisters!”

“He won’t accept you as queen.”

“Then it is good I am not queen. I am a princess.”

Barbrey's cackling laughter echoes around the chamber at the revelation. 

Hother's jaw tightens. “By law you are a queen. We made your brother a king.”

She is a princess of Dorne, and the North. She cannot possibly be called anything else. She is not a lady to be slaughtered like her mother, nor a queen to be killed like her royal brother.

She is a _princess,_ nothing more and nothing less. 

“Did King Torrhen not kneel and become a lord?” Sansa says stubbornly. “A princely title is more than what my father had. I am a princess and _happy_ for it.”

_Does my happiness count for nothing?_

Sansa blinks back tears, eyelashes fluttering. Stark whines, lying his chin on the edge of the table, big eyes gazing sorrowfully at the council members.

“Please don’t make me a queen.” She whispers. “My brother was crowned, and murdered because of it. Do you want the same to happen to I, who you have only just saved from unimaginable torture?”

“We would save you again.” Wyman says valiantly. “Please, Your Grace, do not cry.”

She stops crying, but she does not brush the tears away. She lets them dry upon her fair cheeks as a sign of her distress.

“If I remain as I am now, I will need no saving.” She sniffs. “Stannis will accept it if I swear to support his cause. He cannot argue against it! Legally I _am_ a princess.”

Her councillors confer in heated discussion.

Some say her title as princess will only arouse his anger, yet more say she has a right to it married to Oberyn, which causes others to believe Oberyn will rule in her name despite the fact they’ve set up a council to avoid that express fear… and then Lord Wyman clears his throat and declares there is no better time than now to tell her Brandon and Rickon are alive.

Sansa stares at him.

The argument around them dies. 

_You have let us argue all this time over my title, knowing all the while…_

“Theon Greyjoy told me,” Sansa says slowly, shaking her head in dizzy disbelief. She had not believed him… “but how do _you_ know?”

“A survivor of Winterfell found his way to my court, an Ironborn boy. He saw two young boys flee in secret, and followed one to the coast where they boarded a vessel to Skagos.”

_So near, yet still so far away._

“My sister turned out to by my friend, so forgive me if I still have doubt.”

“What of the big black wolf with him?”

_Shaggydog. It is Rickon. Baby Rickon…_

She looks at him with sudden suspicion. Her eyes narrow. On her knee, Stark growls. The fierce rumble fills the room, and Jonelle looks nervously between Sansa, her dog, and the lord of White Harbor. 

“You waited until _now_ to tell me, Lord Manderly?”

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, my lady.” His smile is genial, his eyes bright. “I did not know you were coming when I sent Stannis Baratheon’s Hand to find him.”

Another shock to her system. Another blow to her self esteem. 

_So he is working with Stannis Baratheon. He has been, all this time, but let us discuss matters concerning him all the same without mentioning it to me once…_

Her belly aches. Her head spins.

_How many other surprises will he spring upon me?_

So many secrets, from everyone, and she puts a calming hand on Stark’s head.

_What have I gotten myself into?_

* * *

The day is filled with righting wrongs.

Ordering a new proclamation of her title as Her Royal Highness, Sansa Stark, Princess of the North and Dorne. Burning all of the Bolton flags and replacing them with the direwolf of Stark, and sending a message of peace to Lord Stannis. Taking down the corpses desecrating the courtyard, and burning them. Offering Theon the chance of redemption by freeing the Winterfell women he helped enslave.

Her last, and least welcome task of all, is Jeyne.

Sansa’s steps towards her are hesitant. She cannot help but feel as if she is condemning her to a terrible fate, whatever the outcome.

“I had Ellaria brew moon tea.” Sansa tells her, staring guiltily down at the red-purple posset. “If you are with child, the tea makes it disappear.”

Jeyne nods. Her hair has been brushed until it shines, and her skin scrubbed until it is bright pink. Slowly, the bruises are fading, but who knows how many scars will remain? 

“You don’t have to drink it.” She slides the cup across the table to her friend, blinking back sudden tears. “Whatever you decide, I will support.”

For a moment Sansa fears she does not truly understand, for her face is blank of expression… and then Jeyne smiles, and grips her hand tight before downing the concoction whole.

When she’s consumed it all, panting for breath, her red stained mouth smiles wider still.

* * *

In the cold confines of his cell, Roose Bolton seems to accept his fate. He lounges casually on the cold, straw strewn floor, and looks up with a smile as Sansa steps carefully into his cell. 

_He always knew this would happen._

Her guards are one step behind her, lingering at the door in case she comes to harm... though she is sure, with his hands manacled, Roose would not attack her. Surely he has some remnant of dignity, despite his ripped clothing and bruised face. 

“Do you want anything to eat or drink?” She asks.

“And have you poison me?” His smile widens. “No, thank you.”

“As you wish... your wife is well." 

He nods. “And my son?”

“Kicking lustily.”

“He will be a good heir.”

“They will be, with my help.” 

“Yours?” He arches an eyebrow. “The north is at peace now, and _I_ did that. Not you Stark's, who only brought death and destruction for generations. I ended the war your brother started, and we have all been the better for it.”

"I think Jeyne Poole would disagree." 

“The lady Arya that wed my son might have been an imposter, but she was undeniably of Northern stock. But _you?_ ” His eyes trail over her with noted interest. “With your browned skin? Your husband and his mistress and those spiced peppers?”

“Lord Manderly seems to like them well enough.”

He dares to insult her and her husband by emphasising their otherness, when he is so devoid of humanity he killed his friends at a wedding feast! The Bolton’s have bad blood, they have for decades, so for him treachery is almost expected. But the Stark’s… Sansa is the last of a bloodline that have ruled the North for centuries. How can they hate her?

“Do you think the people will heed you, a foreign girl ruled by her savage husband? They will not welcome you here. They hate me,” he smiles, “there is no doubt about that, but they hate your husband even more.”

_That is why there is a regency council, you fool._

“My husband does not care for popularity.”

“And you, Lady Sansa?” He says, eyes burning into hers. 

"Princess Sansa." She corrects. "Her Royal Highness, Princess Sansa of the North and Dorne." 

"Princess Martell. When they murder your husband like he murdered my son, what will you do then? Dorne will not want you back.”

Sansa smiles. “I was married for my claim, Lord Bolton. Just like Jeyne. That is all a woman is fit for, is she not? When I birth Stark heirs in the ancient Stark seat, the people will forget my husband’s place of birth. They will come to love him as the father of a new dynasty.”

“If you kill me, the Lannister’s and Frey’s will not hesitate to retaliate.” He warns. “They killed two Starks, what is one other?”

“That is true.” Sansa considers for a long moment, gazing down at him with a thoughtful finger to her lips. “But you’re already dying. You’ve been dying for two days.”

He blinks at her, uncomprehending. Sansa stares at him, almost pityingly. 

“That sweat on your brow, the tremor in your hands… it is not down to fear. You are dying, Lord Roose, of grief and regret for your treason.”

“How?” He finally asks, cocking his head with eyes burning to know. “I ate no meat and mead you and your husband did not.”

She merely smiles.

As if she would reveal her truth to him! Let him go to his grave forever haunted.

“You should thank me. I gave you a gentle death. Better than my brother.”

_Better than you deserved._

“How long did it take Robb to die? Your liege lord? Your _k_ _ing?_ ”

“Not long enough.”

His words are but hoarse whispers, but cutting as a blade, and Sansa flinches backwards. Her mercy threatens to dissipate. 

“I have given you time to find comfort in your wife, and pray the child in her belly grows up the opposite of you. I have saved you the pain and public spectacle of a beheading. Soon you’ll simply slip into a sleep and never awaken.”

She broke no laws of guest right; Roose was marked for death long before she returned North. When she entered the Great Hall and choked down dry crust and salt, the poison from her ring was already trickling into his bloodstream. A tickle in his throat, a flutter in his belly... 

_The man who passes the sentence swings the sword._

She had an antidote waiting all along, in case she had second thoughts. She didn’t relish the thought of killing, even a man such as Roose Bolton, but he was so unrepentant of his crimes. He didn’t even mourn his son. Even the queen cried while Joffrey choked to death, monster though he was.

Roose imprisoned awaiting a beheading satisfies the Northeners who want justice, and dying of a disease lowers the suspicions of the Lannisters. Nobody will question her new title, as she is the only one able to bear it.

_And already it is heavy upon my head._

“How kind of you.”

He laughs, and keeps laughing. His amusement echoes around the cell, digging deep into Sansa's half frozen ears, and she grits her teeth against the terrible sound. 

"I'm not like you." Sansa tells him forcefully, and turns to go, weary of conversation with a killer. “I’ll never be like you.”

She _doesn’t_ enjoy this.

* * *

“I’m surprised my lenses haven’t frozen to my face.” Oberyn shudders as he enters her bedchamber, blowing into his hands to warm them.

He's been busy working outside all day, overseeing the organisation of parties bound north for the Dreadfort and south for the Twins in the coming days, and generally charming everyone. Naturally some have come to see him as their leader over Sansa, but when men assume he is in charge (and there are quite a few) he defers all their questions and suggestions to Sansa with an airy wave of his hand. 

"I'm the prince _consort_ here," he had told her earlier, helping her pen a letter to Kings Landing explaining their situation, "just as my father had been in Dorne." 

He seems happy enough in the role, even with all the snow involved. His brisk entrance distracts her from her thoughts, and when he takes off his lenses and heads immediately for the fire she does not hesitate to rise and wrap her arms around his waist. 

“I’m sorry.” She murmurs. “Even I have never endured snowfall such as this.”

“Winter has come, I take it?”

She nods, nuzzling into his chest. He picks up on her mood quickly, tilting his chin up to meet his gaze.

“He upset you?”

She nods. He sighs, arms tightening around her. 

“You shouldn’t have gone to see him.”

“I had to.”

She tears herself from his hold with a wave of misery, slumping in a seat nearby.

_I love torturing myself after all._

Oberyn crouches down in front of her, tilting her chin up gently so their gazes meet. “If not for you, the North would still be ruled by your brother’s killer. Are you really going to listen to the poison he drips in your ear?”

 _Poison. I am killing him with poison, and he is not the only one to perish from my hands._

“But Ghael-” Her eyes fill with tears. “Ghael is dead, and Tully. I killed them and Roose, as surely as he killed Robb and Mother.”

“Do you think Jeyne regrets you coming?" He takes her slim hands within his, squeezing gently. "She is rescued from her torment, because of you. Think of all the other women who might have been killed, these women and girls in the Dreadfort-”

“I made Ellaria make moon tea. I made her murder a child-”

She thinks of Kings Landing, where she had pretended to miscarry a child to save her own skin, and shudders.

“You prevented Jeyne from dying in childbirth _if_ she were with child. You didn’t pour it down her throat and force her to swallow. She made the choice willingly. You helped her, just as you are going to help the girls imprisoned in the Dreadfort. Think of the men waiting to wage battle against Lord Stannis, too. Now you have made contact under a banner of peace, hundreds of lives will be saved. You must not think of the few, my love, hard as it may be. Think of the many.”

“I’ll try.”

“And when your burdens are too heavy, you know you can share them with me. I am your husband, and I want to help.”

His swarthy face, dappled with firelight, is so earnest and loving she cannot help but feel warmed by his love.

“I know.” She smiles, and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “You _do._ ”

Over wine he regales her with tales of his day, and Sansa is laughing when Ellaria joins them after finishing her own duties. Sansa had asked her and a small team to sift through the rooms of Winterfell and find old banners, livery, jewels and clothes if possible. Anything to reestablish Stark rule.

Ellaria's eyes are bright when she curtsies before Sansa. Cheeks blooming pink Sansa urges her up, for she won't have Ellaria behave towards her as if she is a mere servant, and Sansa her mistress. They are both lovers of the Prince of Dorne, and Ellaria -

"I want you to be my mistress of robes." Sansa tells her.

Ellaria's eyes widen, her mouth opening in shock.

"Mistress-"

"Yes." Sansa says firmly.

It is the most prominent position she can give her.

Keeper of the royal wardrobe and jewels, protector and ruler of ladies in her royal household, and communicator of Sansa's orders and wishes in the absence of others. 

"You-" She is lost for words, eyes watering. "You cannot. I am not _worthy_ -"

"You did not have that reaction when I made you official concubine of the prince of Dorne!" Oberyn notes with a grin. 

"To be honoured by the Princess of the North is much more worthy of esteem." Ellaria laughs, blinking back tears. "Oh _Sansa_!" 

"You always dress so beautifully and I know you'll take good care of my clothes - and ladies. Jeyne has already improved under your watch." Sansa cannot help but smile widely at her joy. "How can I not reward you for all the love you show me? I know I can trust you with my life." 

She hugs her tightly, curls tickling her wet cheeks. 

"You have pleased me so much." Ellaria says thickly when she withdraws, "and I hope this pleases you." 

Slowly she holds out her palm, where a silver bracelet lies. 

Sansa stares at her wide eyed. "Where did you find this?" 

"We found it in a bedchamber. It had slipped behind the back of a dresser."

It must have been missed when the Bolton's purged the castle of anything Stark related. 

"It was my mother's." She stares wonderingly at the tiny silver wolf. "Father had it made for her. She lost it a few months before King Robert visited and we left for Kings Landing..." 

She takes it from her, stroking the sole wolf wobbling in the middle. It looks so lonely on the chain, and she twines it through her trembling hands before affixing it around her wrist. 

Tomorrow, she will find a silversmith.

* * *

It felt strange, to sleep in the bedchamber where her father had once slept. To share it with her husband, as her mother had with her father. When she stirs awake, Oberyn is looking at her, smiling softly.

“You were growling in your sleep.”

Sansa flushes.

Her husband’s voice is a soft, teasing rumble. “Were you dreaming you were a wolf?”

“Maybe.” She sighs. “I wish I could stay here all day.”

His nightshirt is made of soft grey wool, and she buries her nose in it trying to reconcile the scent and sight of Oberyn in Northern clothes. Her husband, draped in her childhood.

He plays lazily with her hair, twisting the red strands through his fingers. “We could…it is much warmer in bed.”

“ _You_ could, with Ellaria.” She says, reluctantly throwing back the covers. “I have work to do.”

Another busy day lies before her.

She breaks her fast at the high table, surrounded by direwolf banners. Stark prowls back and forth along the dais, puffed up and fierce until Sansa feeds him some bacon. He licks at her fingers greedily and she giggles. She remembers Lady had done the same once, and Septa Mordane had told her off… but now they are both dead, and nobody can tell her what not to do.

“We must make you a good marriage, Jonelle.” Sansa tells Lady Cerwyn.

She has taken to having a mixture of Northern and Dornish people to dine with her. They are wedded now, through her, and must come to love each other as Sansa loves them. Jonelle sits beside Sansa, with Ellaria, Oberyn and Hother. To her right sit Jynessa, Arron, and Barbrey, who smirks at Sansa’s statement. Perhaps she knows Sansa would never dare broach such a topic with her. 

“Who to, Your Grace?”

“Why, the man who deserves you most.” She replies. “But there are so many brave and handsome fellows here, I think there will be quite the competition.”

“ _Ooh._ ” Jynessa taps her chin with delight, gaze sweeping over the hall. “How shall we test them? Archery? Wrestling?”

“There would be no competition there!” Hother booms, barking a laugh. “It would not be fair, for I would surely win.”

From the table nearby, his brother snorts. “I’d like to see you try.”

Jynessa laughs, more so when Jonelle blushes darkly.

“I am Your Grace's to command.” She murmurs. 

Sansa squeezes her hand. “And it is my command you marry to a man of personal choice.”

The doors at the end of the room creak open, snowflakes swirling into the hall along with a windswept Beron. 

“Your Grace,” He pants for breath, cheeks flushed, “the stables have collapsed.”

“Entirely?”

 _It is as if Winterfell itself is toppling the previous regime,_ she marvels as he nods.

“Dig out any surviving horses.” She orders. “The dead can be eaten.”

Beron bows and runs back out into the cold.

“You Northerners are tough.” Arron grins, and Sansa does not miss how his eyes flicker to Jeyne at the table nearby, “Your ladies especially.” 

Sansa arches an eyebrow, intrigued.

Arron is brave and kind, the perfect healing balm for the bruises Ramsay left. She remembers he had offered to shield her eyes at Oberyn’s trial, lest she see him die. He would be a perfect match for Jeyne…

He is to set off to the Dreadfort on the morrow on a rescue mission, a true hero, while the Frey forces leave for the Twins. She will not suffer their presence in her home any longer, taking up bed and board for others more worthy. Besides, they can spread the news to the Lord of the Crossing of their family’s downfall… if they arrive. Hopefully the blizzard, or the secret trenches Mors Umber dug, kill them before they cross the Neck. 

Walder Frey will surely not launch an attack without the aid of Lannister’s in the midst of winter. She will surely be safe until spring, and by then her or Rickon’s rule will be firmly consolidated.

_Surely._

Rickon will almost be a man grown by then. Her little brother, back home, in her arms... 

Sansa does not even want to think of what extra boon Lord Manderly aims for after his invaluable aid.

_I am only a placeholder for him, until my brother returns._

But he treats her with respect at least, and his advice is always fair, and if Rickon is found alive and returned to her, she will never be able to thank him enough.

* * *

Hurrying between meetings, she spies her friends huddled together in front of a fire. She is pleased Jeyne is amongst them, sat nestled between Myria and Palissa eating sweetmeats with Arron, Dickon and Jynessa. An hour later, with her morning duties done, she returns. She’s felt so awful having no time to spare, leaving them to fend for themselves.

“Tomorrow,” Sansa promises them as she pulls up her hood, “we’re going to have a snowball fight.”

"Are you not the great peacemaker after all?" Jynessa teases.

"Surely you want to avoid such sport?" Lissa agrees, and Sansa grins. 

" _You_ do." She wanders over and pinches one of the sweetmeats from the plate. “I can handle some snow, and so can you! Besides,” she buttons her cloak, “I intend it to be the only war we will wage.”

All cast wary looks at the white world outside as she leaves, Stark at her heels, but she will get them out in the courtyard playing eventually.

She lingers at the lichyard, paying her respects to Lady and Ghael as Stark pads between the stones.

_If only you could have seen me now…_

Tears bud in her eyes. She would build a grave for Arya, but there is no body to fill it. Theon says he never saw her sister after she left for Kings Landing. She never made it back home. Her bones lie somewhere else, scattered to the winds…

_Just like Father’s, and Mother’s, and Robb’s._

Sansa wipes the tears from her cheeks. She is done with mourning. She must look forward, to the brother she is getting back.

She passes by men shovelling the paths and thanks them graciously, for without their help she would be unable to escape to the Godswood.

The prayers had been an excuse at first, to have a half hour that was silent and all for her own. Now, with Winterfell hers, she is beginning to believe in Gods again, and prays fervently in thanks.

It is so cold the pool beneath the heart tree has a thick layer of ice over it, and her breath comes out in steaming white plumes.

There are men already praying at the heart tree, but at her approach they bow and leave. Stark sniffs at the weirwood roots curiously, tail wagging.

Sansa kneels in the snow, sagging before the tree, letting the pressure weighing her shoulders down escape. It is only her first week of ruling, and already there is so much to do her head is spinning...

 _Arya is dead._ She takes a deep, bracing breath. _But my brothers still live… and they have a home to return to._

She has saved Winterfell. She has done it, and she must endure it, for her family’s sake if not her own.

“I hope you’re happy.” She says.

Her laugh is bittersweet as she toys with the silver bracelet around her wrist, rubbing her thumb over the eight wolves. 

_Sansa…_

She turns, staring at the trees. Their leaves rustle in the breeze, and she frowns.

“Sansa?” Her husband says.

She jumps, dragging her eyes away to Oberyn, who stares at her with concern as he approaches.

“I thought I heard Bran.” She sighs wistfully. All the talk from Theon and Wyman of her brothers have had him and Rickon close to her mind.

“You don’t mind me interrupting you, I hope?”

She shakes her head, holding out a hand.

He holds her close.

“Roose Bolton is dead.”

Snowflakes dust her hair, cool on her cheeks, her lips, when Oberyn kisses her.

“My Lady of Winterfell. My Princess of the North.”

She feels a tiny jolt of panic deep in her stomach, but he knows her so well he can easily soothe her worry.

“I doubt greatly the Lannister’s will retaliate. Winter is almost here, and Cersei has been imprisoned by the Faith.”

“Oh.”

_Good._

“We should put Roose’s head on a spike.”

Oberyn blinks at her. “I beg pardon?”

“The Starks of old used to, and it will satisfy the Northerners who feel slighted at his… _premature_ death.”

Their bloodthirstiness must be satiated somehow.

“With a paper crown.” Oberyn says with relish, but Sansa frowns.

“No crown. Not even a fake one. Not after everything he's done.”

“As you wish.” 

“And I will inform Lady Walda personally of where it shall be placed, in case she wants to avoid it. I won’t have her come across it unawares and distress herself and the babe. She told me earlier if it it’s a girl she’s going to call her Sansa.”

“You are a good woman.”

“Am I?”

She has Bolton blood on her hands. His child will grow up knowing she murdered him…perhaps she has become the very monster she feared.

Her thoughts clearly reflect on her face, as he turns her slim hands over in his large ones, kissing her knuckles.

“The Maesters will testify it was a illness that killed Roose. A sickness of the heart.”

“Mmm.”

_And who will believe them?_

“No one is wholly innocent in war. If they are, they do not survive.”

“They should.” She murmurs. “They will, under my rule.”

She will ensure it.

* * *

The crypts are cold, but Oberyn’s hand is warm within hers as they gaze at the carved stone figures of her ancestors.

Oberyn glares at the stone image of her aunt Lyanna, who had been kidnapped by his sister's husband Rhaegar. He blames her for Elia's eventual death, but his hatred has never passed on to Sansa. His love for her encompasses all of his unsavoury feelings for the other female Stark's. Even now, he turns to her and smiles, dark eyes shining with firm conviction. 

"She was _nowhere near_ your beauty." 

Sansa's hair is wet with melting snow, cheeks still flushed from the snowball fight with her friends, and she smiles at her husband's heated words.

She does not care to look at her long dead aunt though. She is more interested in the chiselled statue of her father. The long and solemn face, the carved eyes forever grey from the granite...

Oberyn squeezes her hand in silent understanding. 

"Is it a good likeness?"

She nods, not trusting herself to speak as she stares at the carved faces of her family. 

So many people in their past, murdered gruesomely.

Her grandfather Rickard, burnt alive by the Mad King while her uncle Brandon strangled to death before him. Oberyn's uncle Lewyn, a white knight of the Kingsguard slaughtered trying to protect his niece. Elia, and Lyanna, both dead for over a decade leaving their older brothers broken. Father, beheaded in front of Sansa, and her husband, almost killed to get revenge for the ghosts that plague them. 

She wonders what they would think of them.

Oberyn, the Red Viper and Prince of Dorne, almost four times her age with poor eyesight after a battle to avenge his sister Elia. 

Sansa, Princess of the North and Dorne, a woman grown with a broken wrist from defending her friend against the men who killed her brother Robb.

By rights, with their family history, a wolf and a snake should be mortal enemies... but their shared tragedies have only made them the strongest of lovers. Who would have thought a marriage made by King Joffrey, meant to mock and shame her, would bring her a sense of love and loyalty she had never known before? 

Perhaps it was obvious, from the beginning. Archmaester Brude once wrote that the North and Dorne had more similarities then most realise, at first. 

_One is hot and one is cold, yet these ancient kingdoms of sand and snow are set apart from the rest of Westeros by history, culture, and tradition._

“I have not thought to ask what you think of Winterfell." She murmurs into the silence, for they had had to force their way into the frozen crypts with axes. "Apart from my aunt, does it please you?”

“Oh, it pleases me greatly." He says softly, sincerely. "It is beautiful, just like her mistress.”

“Not broken?”

“A little.” He considers. “But strong enough to withstand all that try to harm her.”

 _Yes,_ she thinks, realising the truth of his words with a content smile. _We will heal together, I and Winterfell..._

With a sigh, she leans her head on his arm. He wraps his arm around her, enveloping her in his warmth. He is her harbour, her refuge, her husband and prince consort.

_He will heal too, and all those who have been hurt in the past._

Already there is laughter around the walls of Winterfell once more. There are stories, and songs, and snowball fights. The rotting head up on the ramparts is not mentioned, and the bastard Ramsay is forgotten. Jeyne smiles, and Theon repents, and in Lady Walda's confinement chamber, Sansa presents her with embroidered baby clothes for the godchild due any day.

Twice a week she takes part in regency council meetings, where they discuss and debate the best way to ensure the North prospers. Sometimes Oberyn attends, vocally or silently backing her up when needed, his glare the perfect way to press a valid point.

Daily, she sits upon her throne, hearing of the most recent happenings in Kings Landing, where the dowager queen Cersei undergoes a naked walk of shame and dear Margaery a trial. She makes preparations to host Stannis Baratheon, where they will discuss her swearing fealty while keeping the rightful title of princess. She is sure he will agree; he has already helped her forces take back Torrhen's Square from the Ironborn as a gesture of goodwill. She writes constantly to her half-brother Jon, swapping plans to improve the defences of their childhood home from the threat of monsters, and frequently discusses with Wyman any minor update of the rescue mission for her other brother, Rickon. When he returns, and Sansa is of age, _she_ will be the regent. 

She makes sure to tell her friends back at the Water Gardens of all that happened since her arrival, and every day after being proclaimed princess, and they send back condolences for Ghael with a sketching of the memorial they made, and a running tally of who is winning which game.

In Sansa's privy chambers, Ellaria gushes proudly over pale Eddara Tallhart and thin Beth Cassel, who entertain Stark and help Jeyne compose poetry. They are all melancholy in nature, but so well written Sansa has half a mind to publish them, an idea Arron urges her daily to fulfil. Palissa draws portraits of her princess in ermine, and Sansa marvels how she captures her so clearly while she teaches Jonelle how to play the harp. Myria reads every half burnt book from the library Sansa vows to restock, while Jynessa dances to Mance Rayder's songs and forces him to compose more. Even Barbrey Dustin smiles more when Lord Manwoody sends her some dirty bones wrapped in velvet, and laughs when Dickon flirts outrageously.

All is not perfect.

There is still so much work to do, and their future is uncertain. Jon talks of the dead rising, but Sansa is not scared of death. She has encountered it so often now, she will not turn and run away. She is a woman grown now, a woman wed. 

She will fight, and Oberyn will fight, and together they will create a better life for their future children. A new world, without war and murder and grief. The dark night of her tender youth will become ancient history, and her rule as princess will be filled with light and love. 

Love will be her legacy. 

When she leaves the crypts with freezing toes, it will not be to face murderers and rapers. Instead, she will pass the icy night chattering with her family and friends.

All that awaits Sansa is a roaring fire, and spiced wine, and perhaps even a plate of lemon cakes. The warmth of her husband's fingers around hers, and the hearty sound of his laughter, and the knowledge that for now, at least, at last... she is finally at peace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End.
> 
> I'm so emotional! It's been a very long five years, and I'm going to miss them both terribly, but this series has really helped improve my writing.  
> I might write more about them in the future, but at the moment I'm content and Sansa's content. 
> 
> Even though Game of Thrones ended badly, I hope I've remedied that and left you satisfied with this ending!  
> THANK YOU so much for every single comment. Rest assured I read every single one, and even though I suck at replying I appreciate them all and re-read them constantly when I'm feeling low to give my spirits a boost. You're all amazing, to old readers from the beginning to new ones that have just started, and I can never thank you enough for all your kind words! <3


End file.
